


Vessel of Passage

by Rhonck



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-02-03 04:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12741150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhonck/pseuds/Rhonck
Summary: The Ammurun are one of the three ancient vampire tribes that arrived on the Continent during the Conjunction of the Spheres. Unlike their brethren from the T’det or the Gharasham, they did not stay, and instead ventured beyond the Great Sea. Unlike those same brethren, they do not wish to resort to sitting around and twiddling their thumbs while waiting for the portal to the Old World to reopen, either. Instead, they take matters into their own hands.Events take place long before and slightly after the books/games, but also after the short story called "Something ends, something begins", wherein Geralt and Yennefer marry.TheCraftyWriter, thank you so much for Ciaran O'Cionnaith, and for allowing me to use him in my writing. Chances are - since the original story is not yet complete - that the paths of my Ciaran and theirs will differ slightly, but no mind. The Universe is a magical place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Barber-Surgeon of Ard Skellig](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9111187) by [TheCraftyWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCraftyWriter/pseuds/TheCraftyWriter). 



  Laughter rang out from the dining hall.  
  The keep was aglow with the soft, flickering light of torches; perfect atmosphere for a night such as this. The kitchen teemed with people all the way until the start of food service. Then they piled into the hallway, carrying platters and bowls stacked high with meats, fish, vegetables, and soup, baskets of twisted bread, and rolls sweetened with cinnamon and sugar, and joined the crowd already in the midst of revelry. The wine had by then flowed for hours, and goblets of blood awaited drinkers on every serving tray and table top.  
  Savages, thought Soley and went the other way.  
  
  The sentry posted by the great hall paid no attention to his surroundings; his foot tapped to the rhythm of the muffled music ringing in the distance, and he hoped his replacement would show up sooner than later. Soley could tell his mind was elsewhere with the way he looked through her as if she was some common scullery maid. Still, he bowed and opened the doors; his movements learned and automatic.  
  “Good evening, Your Majesty.”  
  “Having a good time?”  
  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The guard blushed. “Will be even better once I get to go.”  
  “Won’t be long now,” she said, hiding the brocade pack behind her back. She thought it almost comical how much she felt like a thief. Like a stranger in her own home, walking alone through the castle, attempting to appear ordinary. As she passed into the hall with no desire to enjoy the echo of her footsteps, she looked up – mostly out of habit – and realized it would be her last time to try to understand what the ceiling frescoes meant to depict; the nearly nude men and women, masterfully painted in a minimum of bedlinens, writhing around each other, dancing, sitting, contemplating… They were already a distant memory.  
  With no one there to judge her, Soley began to run, skipping over the floor like a wisp, as her hair and skirt trailed behind. Full moon followed her through the kaleidoscope of the stained-glass windows, through the hall where no courtesans chatted, no servants curtsied, and no ambassadors delivered useless information. She never understood what they said, anyway – only registering the superiority on their faces as they mumbled. Part of her was glad she’d never have to endure their conversations again.  
  
  The sentry outside the opposite entry to the great hall had fallen asleep. Soley tiptoed past him and turned the corner into the bedroom wing as the doors slid closed behind her. The sentry stirred, raised his head in confusion, but seeing no one around, deemed it appropriate to go back to dreamland.  
  She smiled to herself, and slipped into the first bedroom to her left. It was empty, save for furniture, and smelled of fresh linens and lavender. The curtains had been drawn, but she could tell by the stillness in the air that nobody occupied the bed. Although the room was cool and calm, it was no use to linger here.  
  A short stub of a candle by the bedside table lit the second room. Barely flickering, the light threatened to go out as Soley opened the door. A woman, her hair covered with an elegant linen bonnet, snored quietly in the poster bed, an unfinished book on the floor beside it.  
  “Mai?” whispered the queen.  
  But it wasn’t. Peeking from under the covers were the familiar features of the elderly human mate of the ambassador of Darpat. Her other half had joined the crowd in the dining hall, where he would likely stay until dawn, or until the blood stores were depleted. Soley backed towards the door and exited quietly. The old woman snorted but did not wake.  
  The telling creaks of the bed frame in the third room made Soley blush. At first instinct, she thought it prudent to shut the door and walk away. No need to embarrass, she figured. But then, in the last moment between decision and action, she heard a familiar moan, a voice she knew but could not quite place. Was it truly Mai, fornicating with servant folk? Soley apologized to herself for what she was about to do, found a plausible reason to immediately negate the necessity for an excuse and pushed the doorway curtains aside.  
  The woman pinned between her partner and the mattress was not Mai, although Soley did recognize her. It was Brigitte, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, her unmistakably patterned surcote mixed in the jumble of legs, thrusts, and underskirts. Intertwined with one of the officers of the king’s army, she was also wearing the queen’s agama skin slippers – the white ones with the impossibly high heels.  
  “Brigitte!”  
  The maid yelped and pushed the man off, her face as white as the sheets she lay on. Hurriedly she began to adjust her gown, smoothing the skirt and straightening the surcote. The officer, whom Soley now recognized as one of the young lieutenants, withdrew his fangs, two faint lines of blood trailing on his chin. With never-before-seen speed and accuracy, the man laced up his codpiece. Soley regarded his nimble fingers. Impressive, she thought.  
  The couple assumed a sustained bow in front of the queen.  
  “Your Majesty, I am so sorry,” said Brigitte, as her eyes flashed around in terror. “I… I thought you were sleeping.”  
  Soley gave a few possible responses some thought, then settled on one that sounded the least suspicious.  
  “Wasn’t able to. I am worried about Mairearad.” She straightened herself; their cowering added to her feeling of superiority. Still, with a slight gesture of her hand, she beckoned Brigitte to stand.  
  “Is Her Highness feeling better?” The maid’s voice still quivered.  
  “That is what I intend to find out. Perhaps you know which bedroom she chose to stay in tonight?”  
  Brigitte cowered under the impression that she should have known this fact. The lieutenant cleared his throat.  
  “You wish to say something, lieutenant?” Soley turned her gaze to him. Only now did she notice his whimsical upturned mustache.  
  “With permission, Your Majesty… I believe Her Highness is in the attic room. This afternoon I observed dinner being delivered –”  
  “Ah, right you are,” said Soley, and her fingertips fluttered towards him dismissively. “You may leave. Brigitte, accompany me.” Perhaps this was a good idea. Perhaps, with luck, and the maid by her side, nobody would pay attention to her midnight meanderings. With better luck, nobody would notice she was barefoot, either.  
  “Is Your Majesty not going to the party?” Brigitte hurried behind Soley, the heels of the agama skin slippers clinking against the stone floors. “His Majesty is there, also. Now, that’s rare!” The childlike glee in her voice amused Soley.  
  “My daughter’s wellbeing is of more importance,” she said. “Besides, I do not enjoy the sort of boisterous behavior often displayed at these… celebrations. Doubtful His Majesty does, either. For him to appear is simply a show of solidarity.”  
  “I understand, Your Majesty. But, if I could, I would like to go to the dining hall after Your Majesty no longer needs me. Kari… I mean, lieutenant Olvirsson will be there, too.”  
  The spiral staircase to the attic proved to be troublesome for the maid; heels were never meant for the use of common folk, thought Soley. Brigitte heaved on the high risers, too embarrassed to complain, having to rush behind the queen who gracefully scurried upward. When they arrived at the attic room door, there were beads of sweat on the maid’s brow. Soley smirked. Oh, to be a fly on the wall and see Brigitte walk downstairs while wearing those heels! Perhaps…  
  A tray of untouched food stood on the table against the wall. Once again, Mai had not even picked at the offerings, surviving seemingly only on tea and literature. Just as with breakfast and lunch, this plate full of food had long since gone cold. Salmon, sliced beets, pears… A single fly digested its snack on the edge of the plate.  
  “Permission granted.” The queen pointed at the tray. “But only after you deliver this to the kitchen for disposal.”  
  Brigitte bowed deeper than before, her face lit by a broad smile.  
  “Thank you, Your Majesty!” She grabbed the tray, balancing the massive silver platter with both hands and began to leave. Soley’s hand rested on the door handle. She remembered one last thing.  
  “Brigitte?”  
  “Yes, Your Majesty?”  
  “You may keep the slippers.”

  …

  Mai hadn’t even begun packing. Instead, she leaned over the desk, seemingly engrossed in a tome, and did not notice the door open or close. Her fingers tapped in anxious rhythm. In a mug next to her hand, the remnants of a drink percolated with what seemed to be a science project; beside it, some rags covered in crumbs. A trail of clothing lead from the door to the bed in the corner – garments that hadn’t to Soley’s knowledge seen the hands of a laundress in weeks.  
  She never enjoyed coming here. The clutter made her nervous; she didn't know what half of these bottles and jars, books, plants, tubes, drawings, and scrolls were for, and she had no intention to ask. All in all, a jumble like her daughter’s mind, continually churning in disarray. How anyone could find anything in this chaos without using magic, remained a mystery.  
  “What do you want?” Mai had noticed the queen, after all.  
  “You’re not ready?”  
  The princess tore her attention from the pages. The finger tapping ceased; her bloodshot eyes flashed at her mother.  
  “Ugh. Should I be? Are we going somewhere?”  
  “Your father is celebrating tonight,” said Soley after a moments silence. “I assumed you knew.”  
  Mai pulled away from the table and began shuffling through the desk drawers. She seemed frail and tired.  
  “I did not. You know I don’t feel well. I’ve been here all day.”  
  “Well then, hurry. We haven’t much time.”  
  “Hurry? Why? Are you implying I should go to the party with you?” She eyed her mother’s floor-length white gown, adorned elaborately with silver embroidery. “You look very pretty, but you’re also insane if you think I want to go. Don’t wait for me, I’m not coming. Go, enjoy yourself.”  
  Soley’s feet shivered on the stone floor, but she decided not to complain this time. She’d done enough of it, she thought. Too much scolding at the cost of her own mental wellbeing. After tonight, she wouldn’t have to. A smile brushed her lips at that thought, then disappeared.  
  “We’re not going to the party,” she said. “We’re leaving. Tonight. Now. That’s what I meant.” She opened her brocade bag; in it, an old tattered book, and what looked like a vase. With some effort, Soley placed the latter on the table.  
  “What is this?” said Mai, but the telling expression on the queen’s face was more than enough for an answer. “Are you serious? So… that’s it?”  
  Soley nodded. Her mouth curved into a self-assured smile.  
  The cylindrical contraption did not have an opening on either end, and thus couldn’t even be called a vase. It was solid, poured of gold mixed with finely ground herbs, and consisted of three graduating tiers, it’s surface scratchy and unpleasant to the touch. Mai picked it up; it fit in the palm of her hand, but was heavier than she expected. Faint smell of herbs wafted from it. She couldn’t discern the different species used, but recognized the mix as extensive.  
  "Yes, this is it,” said Soley.  
  “How do I use it?” Mai turned the item this way and that way.  
  “Once you get to the temple, the procedure should be self-explanatory. I would think you simply insert it.”  
  “Insert it where?”  
  They exchanged a few quiet glances.  
  “Oh, for the sake of Melitele, there’s a receptacle,” said Soley when she’d had enough of her daughter’s silent blinking. “What did you think? Here, I drew this for you. You’ll need it, none of these roads are marked on any Temerian maps.”  
  “What could I think? This is new to me.” Mai snatched the paper from her mother’s hand and stood, slightly confused.  
  “Besides, I’m not ready,” she said. “You should have… I don’t know where my things are.”  
  Soley watched her stumble around the room in her socked feet, searching for the items she wanted to bring. The knees of her daughter's pants were stretched out; her shirt untucked and unlaced. She thought Mai looked disrespectful.  
  “Do you need help?”  
  No answer. Mai pulled her jacket out from under the bed.  
  “Is that what you’re planning to wear? How long have you had those clothes on?”  
  “What does it matter? We’ll not be seen by anyone who cares.”  
  “I care, child. We’re royalty. Your appearance needs to reflect your status. At least –” She stopped her daughter in the middle of the room and laced up her shirt. “At least try to look decent.”  
  Mai’s arms hung limp by her side. She seemed to wish to say something, her lips moved a few times in preparation, but no sound came out. She swallowed.  
  “I’m scared, mum.”  
  “What on earth for? It’s too late to be scared now. It’s done, we’re leaving. You wished to go to the temple, and I made it possible for you.” The queen smoothed her daughters long copper blonde hair.  
  “I know we’re leaving, but that’s not what I’m afraid of. Not the vessel, not the temple. It’s Temeria. I’m afraid of not knowing what’s out there, how I should be, how I should act, where to go…”  
  “There’s nothing to fear. Not a thing.”  
  “But the people…”  
  “If you stay clear of the beaten path, hide into the forest, you won’t need to worry about the people. All you need is your map. Follow it, go north, and you’ll make it.” Soley looked around the room. “Have you collected your things? We really should be going.”  
  “No, I’m… Mum, I’m too discombobulated to look for anything.” Mai sank back into the chair, already tired.  
  “Tell you what,” said the queen. “Let me know what you need to bring, and I’ll help you find them, alright?”  
  The simplest of spells lit up the few items Mai listed – her coin pouch, an old map of Temeria and a bottle of brown liquid. Her belt turned up without assistance, behind a stack of books on the shelf; the black straps of leather, from which hung her satchel and a small hunting knife.  
  “I wish you would have given me time to prepare,” said Mai, buckling her boots.  
  “You know I couldn’t. If he would have found out…”  
  “Yes, yes. Still, I…” Mai sighed. “Never mind. I’m ready. Cast it.”  
  Soley raised an eyebrow. “Cast what?”  
  “The portal.”  
  “I will do no such thing! If Loede sensed the energy vibrations from it, him and your father would come running. All would be for naught.”  
  “Not even to the shore?”  
  “No. We shall walk. Just as we always do.”  
  “I think you’re making a mistake.” Mai blew out the candle on the desk and in the resulting darkness walked into the chair. “Dammit. Fine. We will walk.”  
  “I do not make mistakes,” protested Soley. “Everything is carefully planned.”  
  She received no reply; Mai had already left the room, leaving the door hang open.

  …

  Their careful descent of the spiral staircase did not last long. Soley had forgotten about Brigitte, so it took her a few seconds to realize why her daughter suddenly gasped.  
  "Mother! Quick! Oh, gods, I think it’s… Brigitte!”  
  The queen’s feigned interest lasted just enough to hasten the few steps she took on the way to the scene. Were Mai to have looked up towards her, she would have seen the utter contempt on her mother's face, as Soley regarded the corpse of her maid.  
  Brigitte had undoubtedly fallen, face first it seemed, smashed her forehead against a step and died instantly. A trail of blood marked her path toward where she now lay, her head leaning against the wall at an awkward angle. Further down lay the silver tray, around it the remains of Mai's dinner.  
  “She’s gone.” Mai removed her fingers from Brigitte’s neck and turned the body over with some effort. Out of habit, she cast a ball of light above her head and leaned close to inspect the wounds on the maid’s face. The fall had indeed smashed in her skull above the right eye, and the friction resulting from her sliding down had ripped off her eyebrow, revealing bone underneath. The maid’s single visible eye, glazed and empty, stared over Mai’s shoulder.  
  “How awful… Kari will be absolutely heartbroken…”  
  “Oh, so it’s Kari now, and not lieutenant Olvirsson? What does he matter? Another maid, they will soon hire a new one, the line is out the door with young women, all wishing to be the new queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Surely your father will have that position filled right quick.” Her voice rang bitter.  
  “Of course, he matters! It’s Brigitte, and she’s dead, how can that not matter?” Mai closed the maid’s eyes, adjusting her ripped brow as best she could, and leaned the body against the stairs in a less gruesome manner.  
  “He won’t care. He’ll find another human to plough. They always do.”  
  “They were mates, mother. You didn’t know? How do you not know what happens around you? He’s not gonna find another human to… plough. He will be miserable for some time.”  
  “But I do know. I did know,” lied Soley and walked past her daughter, navigating what steps were available. "I simply did not care and turned a blind eye. Just like with you and –"  
  “Me and who?”  
  Soley smiled knowingly. “You and Heddi.”  
  Mai burst into laughter, the trill of her giggles echoed downward, bounced into the floor below and died in the hallway.  
  “That’s funny how people think…” Then she caught herself and gave the idea some thought. “Yes, yes, it’s true. Heddi and I. Right.” The smile vanished from her face. One last time she glanced at Brigitte’s corpse.  
  “They’ll find her by the morning, I’m sure. Likely blame me for pushing her down the stairs. By then it won’t matter. Still, I feel bad for Ka… lieutenant Olvirsson.”  
  “I feel bad, too,” said the queen. “Now hurry. Let the dead bury themselves.”  
  They retraced Soley’s previous path through the bedroom wing, past the sleeping sentry at the door and through the entry near the dining room. By then, the shift replacement had taken place, and a new sentry, slightly tipsy, swayed near the doors, leaning on his spear, his eyes half closed. He was too out of it to acknowledge two royals passing his post, so he grunted, eliciting a chortle from Mai. For a moment, Soley thought of reprimanding him for not addressing them properly, but the sentry presented her no threat and she left it at that.

  …

  They expected the kitchen to be empty. As required, all surfaces and tools were clean and organized, floors scrubbed, and mops put away. Faint smell or roast still lingered in the air, but that was to be expected. Every member of the kitchen staff, be they vampire or human, was at the celebration. Except for one. In the dark corner beside the root vegetable stores and the exit door, a solitary maid sat, peeling potatoes; a young bruxa, her dark hair plaited in an elaborate design. She looked wistful.  
  “Wait,” whispered Mai. She stood in the shadows by the entry and urged the queen to stay hidden around the corner. “I know her.”  
  “And? What problems could possibly arise from a lowly kitchen helper?”  
  Mai sighed. “She doesn’t particularly like me. I’m afraid if she senses anything, she might… say something. Alert father. Out of spite.”  
  “Who in their right mind would possibly dare to approach your father with a complaint in his current state? That’s certain death! Come, I shall speak with her.”  
  The queen took a step towards the kitchen, only to be pulled back by her daughter.  
  “No, please! Don’t talk to her, you’ll only make it worse! Can you not cast an invisibility spell?”  
  Soley rolled her eyes so deep into her head that for a moment only the whites of them were visible.  
  “Sure,” she said, her voice full of mockery. “An empty white dress and a blue leather outfit walking through the kitchen, carrying bags. How inconspicuous.” She guided her daughter out from behind the corner and began walking towards the exit with determination. “I am not stripping naked for a maid. Just calm down, I shall handle it.”  
  Perhaps Soley realized later that she should not have addressed this maid at all. That she should have let the sitting bruxae be and the busy maids to their duties. Maybe they could have passed through the door unbothered, unnoticed even. The maid would have continued her work, focused only on her own goals, and not bothered with trying to ruin anyone else’s. But later happenings, later realizations did not matter; especially since Soley had already opened her mouth and started the sequence of events.  
  “Young lady,” she said, scanning the maid for anything out of the ordinary. “Why are you not at the celebration? Kitchen duties are over for tonight.”  
  The bruxa looked up from her work, not pausing her hands for a second as potato after potato fell from her fingers into a pail full of water. She did not attempt to stand or curtsey.  
  “Didn’t want to go. Cook said I could take tomorrow off if I peeled three barrels of potatoes for lunch and dinner services.”  
  Color left Soley’s face when she heard such a response. Mai groaned and took a step backward. She prepared to witness a battle – the type her wits usually enjoyed observing, but not between these two. And most certainly not now.  
  “How are you addressing me? You’re lucky I have no guard present, or your gentle neck would be in danger of splitting this very minute! How long have you worked here? Surely the rules of etiquette have been explained to you! Furthermore –” the queen took a breath, “—you shall stand when I address you and curtsey before Her Highness and me."  
  “Won’t curtsey before Her Lowness. Nothing high about her. And you’re no queen.”  
  Soley shot a quick look towards Mai, expecting… no, knowing that her reply to this sort of treatment would be sharp and brutal. To her surprise, no such reaction followed. Mai leaned against a table, shoulders relaxed, face calm, and said not a single word. Their silent exchange – hers and the maids – lasted at most for ten seconds before the queen intervened.  
  She had no time for a lengthy quarrel. She had no time for sass, for insolence. For hundreds of years, she had ruled over this keep, lorded it over them all, commanded respect and watched with pride as these lands entered prosperity and happiness. How the mouth of a potato peeler, as insignificant as a crack in the wall, could utter such unimaginable disrespect, she could not understand. With enviable speed, she snatched the knife from the maid’s hand.  
  “You will go to the celebration. You will eat and drink and mingle, and you will do it because I said so. If not, I will slice that neck of yours open with your own –” Suddenly she fell silent. The maid had stood, steadying herself with the help of a barrel of potatoes. Realizing that however hard she tried, she was unable to make the maid afraid, Soley took a step back, horrified by the expression on the bruxa’s face. The already gaunt features were now skeletal in appearance.  
  “You cannot hurt me, elf. You cannot hurt me or kill me, and if you try, I will kill you first!”  
  At that moment Soley understood what a mistake it had been for her to wander around in a keep filled with vampires; with no guards and no magic that could protect her from these vile monsters, most of whom were against her and her deeds. Only a few steps separated her from the door to freedom, and she couldn’t take them because of one little bruxa who now bared her sharp teeth.  
  “Katria…” It was Mai.  
  “Mairearad, no!” The queen raised her hand, hoping to keep her daughter from the attack of a bruxa ready to pounce but Mai did not listen.  
  “Katria, she cannot hurt you, but I can, although I’d prefer not to. Please, leave. You don’t have to go to the party, but you can’t stay here.” She walked away from the table and stood in front of the maid, her face a mere span from Katria’s. They stared at each other – the maid intently, the princess with forced calm – and soon Katria’s face relaxed and her features slowly returned to normal. This seemed to confuse her.  
  “You’ve already hurt me! You will pay!” The maid blurted, looked from the princess to the queen, grabbed her skirts and ran from them, ran down the hallway towards the dining hall and disappeared.  
  Soley jumped to the rear door with the agility admirable by any nimble forest animal. The door, worn from decades of use, opened easily, its well-oiled hinges did not even creak. In the blink of an eye, the queen had left the building.

  Several long moments passed before Mai finally followed her mother. She emerged from the kitchen, sullen and slow, and began sobbing when the door closed behind her. Soley grabbed Mai’s elbow and pulled her closer, staring at her eyes.  
  “What did you do? You took her sadness, did you not?”  
  Mai’s finger stood, compelling Soley to wait. It proved to be more difficult than she had thought, to suppress these feelings. Her mother continued the berating as last of the snivels subsided.  
  “Could you not have taken her anger instead?”  
  “I’m sorry. The sadness was strongest,” said Mai, shaking her head. The dagger of Katria’s grief still twisted in her heart. “At least she doesn’t have to suffer that anymore. I didn’t have time to take her anger. Or her vengeance. If she would have waited…”  
  “Why would you waste time and energy on someone like her?”  
  “Someone like her? I can’t help but feel partially responsible for her suffering.”  
  “Foolish child,” said Soley, turned to step onto the forest path and narrowly avoided getting smacked in the face by a pine branch. “You might as well feel responsible for existing. Shake it off. I don't know what could have happened between you and a lowly servant, but you’ve cried her tears, it’s over.”  
  Scrambling through the forest along a meandering path, the queen ignored brambles and undergrowth as well as the pine needles pricking the bottoms of her feet.  
  Mai sniffled one last time and picked up the pace. Katria’s tears clouded her eyes at first, but she wiped them and could see better now – whatever there was to see in the woods during midnight. They walked by feel, guided by familiar trees and fallen branches, a rock here and there, and by the sound of the sea, getting closer by the minute.  
  "So, will you not tell me?" The queen's slightly weary voice battled to be heard over the crackling of dried branches.  
  “Tell you what?”  
  “Don’t be ignorant, child. Tell me what that was about, in the kitchen, with that... maid or whatever she was.”  
  Mai, who sounded like her usual self again, gave a faint chuckle. "Nothing." The tone of her denial made it sound like a lie.  
  “Do you expect me to believe that?”  
  Mai didn’t respond.  
  They traveled for a few more minutes, each moment adding to the tension.  
  “Mai,” said Soley, when she could no longer tolerate the heaviness of air around them. “I wish you would not keep secrets from your own mother.”  
  “There’s nothing to talk about, really.”  
  “Is there now?” Soley stopped and Mai nearly ran into her. “Dear, I feel as if I don’t know you anymore. For the past several weeks… It’s as if you’re moody all of a sudden. You, of all people! Feeble attempts at lying, tears caused, questions dodged? Who have you become? If I didn’t know any better, I would suspect you’re with child.” She let out a wry chuckle.  
  Mai walked around the queen at first. These sorts of stabs couldn’t possibly dignify any answers, but after giving the situation some thought, she decided to make up a story for the sake of peace. Something believable, yet forgettable. Something boring. Something to make her mother shut up.  
  "Fine, I will tell you, but don’t expect me to be proud of what I did. Katria became interested in Heddi, a few weeks after he began working for us. She wrote him a nice note, asking if he’d like to come for a walk in the woods sometime. I know because… she asked me to give it to him, since he is always at the clinic, and I opened the note and read it. I didn’t want him to go, I knew he’d have become involved and… Well, long story short, I replaced the note with one that said, ‘I think you walk funny, please come to the kitchen so I can have a good laugh.’ I know, I know, not very imaginative, but… Heddi read it, went to the kitchen, and told Katria that she is not a very nice person and that he does not walk funny. You know how he is. Needless to say, she was heartbroken. Ever since then, it’s been tense between Katria and myself. Especially since Heddi and I… As you suggested...”  
  Mai could almost hear Soley’s eyes roll.  
  “Whom are you trying to fool?”  
  “What do you mean?”  
  “Are you telling me she would cry bitter tears over a half-wit?”  
  “You’ve no right to call him that!”  
  “That is utter pish! Are you honestly telling me we have servants asking royalty to be letter carriers now? What will be next? Perhaps you’d like to join them for lunch in the kitchen? Polish shoes for the stable boys?”  
  “Mother.” Mai sounded more confident now that the subject had changed. “You may think yourself as high and mighty, better than these people who cook and clean for us and care for the keep, but I see them same as myself. I’ll have you know – since we’re leaving anyway – that many of them do not address me as Her Highness when you’re not around. That many of them just happen to be as friendly with me as I am with them, and on a first name basis. Be they castellans or potato peelers or floor washers. Just let it go already. We had a tiff. It’s over. Like you said, I’ve cried her tears. Let it go.”  
  Perhaps the subtle stab at Soley’s uppity attitude had helped, which was for the best, since she’d have stumbled on the truth eventually. Mai didn’t want to think about the truth – especially after finding out how badly Katria felt. Had their roles been reversed… No, no. She wasn’t going to reflect on that. It wasn’t her fault. It was never her fault.

  When the forest undergrowth finally gave way to sand littered with pine needles, the queen nearly fell, her bare feet having trouble adjusting to the slipperiness of this new surface. Coming from the darkness under the trees seemed like entering a brightly lit room, and for a moment they both felt blinded.  
  Soley looked up at the keep, as it sat imposingly atop the city. Lights in the dining hall burned brightly, and she could see dark shapes dashing across the windows, flying around, crashing into each other. The king likely still amid his binge, utterly oblivious to his surroundings - and that was for the best.  
  Earlier that night, when she first left their bedchamber, she had passed the dining hall and had seen them – her king, his assassins, his guards, even the old elven castellan. Roaring, yelling, guzzling wine by the bottle, blood by the pint. Her once beloved Andrues on his high-back armchair at the end of the table, watching the others, one hand clutching a near-empty bottle, the other limp, splattered with blood. She'd seen him like that on many occasions, during times of distress and periods of depression. Times when he hid his mind inside a wine barrel, brought out the best reserves of blood and allowed himself to drift away. He hadn’t noticed her walking by the open doors, and she thanked heavens for it. He was most fearsome, most unpredictable in his drunken state. Once beloved, but no more.  
  A shiver came over her. She wished to put everything behind her, to forget the good and the bad. She wished back for the years she had wasted with him. Wished for the beatings and insults to be just sad stories written in a book. Wished for the return of her sanity, for the hate in her mind to vanish and her old self to emerge, but she knew there was no way to move backward in time. Only forward. Only away. Only towards the promised.  
  Soley lifted her skirts and waded into the ice-cold ocean. Instantly her thin skin reacted, causing unbearable pain, while the sharp rocks on the bottom of the sea made walking even more challenging, yet she kept on. A curse word escaped her lips, one the king liked to use most often. “ _Dor! _”__  
  “What?” Mai yelled over the crashing of the waves.  
  “ _Dor!_ ” Soley felt liberated saying it, again and again. “ _Apheal dor!_ It’s cold!” And she began to laugh. Such insanity, she thought, to walk through the freezing waters after midnight. To finally leave this land filled with hatred and fear, blood, and monsters hiding in plain sight, why, oh why did I not do this years ago! She laughed louder, waded deeper, the tail of her skirt becoming wet, but she no longer cared. I'm going! I'm going, oh dear Melitele, and it’s all going to be forgotten! That thought alone warmed her heart and body as freezing water stung her thighs like a million needles.  
  The outlines of a sailboat became visible behind a boulder. Not much longer now. They were safe!  
  “Mum?”  
  “Yes, child?”  
  “At the temple... Will it be quick?”  
  Soley turned towards her daughter with a comforting smile. “Instant.”  
  As the sail filled with wind, propelling their small boat forward, Soley's heart cheered. Once more she laughed, and the wind carried her giggles back to the shore, for no one to hear. Far over the horizon, Skellige awaited, from there on the Aen Elle, and a way home to Tir ná Lia, away from the chaos that was to come. For Mai – now struggling on the bottom of the boat with her wet boots – it would be Temeria at first. Perhaps she’d sneak to Nilfgaard then, without wanting to admit it, and then to the temple of Ban Aép’Fallan, but after they would part on Skellige, Soley planned to forget everything about Mai. Harsh, yes, but necessary. She closed her eyes. Soon she could cast the portal. Beads of seawater whipped her face, cleaning it from worries.


	2. Chapter 2

  It all happened too quickly for Soley to register the proper sequence of events. Wings flapping, a terrified scream, the boat shaking... She feared of falling overboard, let go of the rudder and grabbed onto the side. A wave licked her fingers once, twice. Then - silence. Heavy and permeating, but not the kind you expect to find in a quiet room or a library filled with studious readers. It was the kind you register over the roaring of the wind and ocean waves. The kind that tells you things are amiss, that trouble is near. The sail billowed, the boat sped up, and Soley rushed to steer it, fighting against the pull. By her feet, where Mai had just sat, only a wet boot remained.  
  She called out for her in panic.  
  No reply. Only wind and waves.  
  She cast a sphere of light to surround her, enlarged it wider and higher, looked in every direction, but saw no movement except that of the sea.  
  It was then that Andrues landed next to her; he descended from the sky at a high rate of speed, nearly crushing the frail ship. He staggered, foot caught momentarily behind the mast, and tilted the boat under his enormous weight.  
  “In a hurry?” He ripped the sail to shreds before pulling Soley closer and pressed his mouth against her cheek. “Light is good, love, but I didn’t need it to catch up with you.”  
  Soley tensed as she felt his fangs slowly extend. She could do nothing in response but groan. His breath smelled of blood. Should she be in fear? Was there anger in his being, or merely possessiveness? Would he deem it proper to break her neck then and there, or would he play with her, like a predator plays with its prey – tossing it, clawing it, bloodying it, before devouring its catch whole?  
  Andrues spread out his wings and the mast snapped when they hit it with careless force. He took flight, pulling the queen with him.  
  She didn’t look down. The image of Mai, struggling to stay afloat in the vast ocean, only to succumb to hypothermia and sink into the depths, developed in her mind. She writhed in the king’s grip, desired to plummet, to rush to her daughter’s aid. Already the anticipation of the burden of guilt over Mai’s suffering began to haunt her. She tried to call out but merely wheezed. Andrues held her too tightly. Soley forced air into her lungs with no room for her chest to expand; tried to breathe again, and again, but had no luck. The dread of death began to replace the panic of being found running. Would Andrues feel more contrite over her demise, or over Mai’s eternal damnation, she thought.  
  They flew errantly, the king’s intoxication clear.  
  “Soley, the fuck were you doing?” His words slurred. Initially, he had sounded soberer, but now, as they bounced between flying high above the clouds and low above the forest, she noticed how drunk he really was. His wings flapped erratically, remembering to hold onto the wind at times, then forgetting, and allowing them to plummet for a hundred meters. “You got fucking maids running to scream at me at my party, damned bruxa from some laundry room, bitching about Mairearad, goddammit…”  
  “Mai was on the boat,” Soley managed to wheeze.  
  “No, she wasn’t. Heddi’s got her, don’t worry.”  
  She gasped in simultaneous relief and panic. Did Mai still have the vessel? Andrues didn’t seem to notice her labored breaths.  
  “I sent that bitch packing,” he continued his drunken rant. “Damned traitor, sent her to fucking Temeria with Lech! Can’t keep her dress on straight… Lech can go back to work, _apheal metiam dor_ … Oh damn, love, I am sorry… Fuck… Sorry…”  
  His arms, skilled even during times of inebriation, loosened their grip, but instead of landing outright, Andrues chose to fold his wings above the forest, and fall, hitting branches on the way down. He cradled Soley and turned his back towards the ground as they hit, slamming into a bed of moss. The impact knocked the wind out of her.  
  Down here, in the intimate confines of the dense blueberry bushes and pines, the king’s voice did not boom as loud. Up in the sky, it had sounded like the rumbling of a far-away mountain. Here, his voice resonated through her, melodious and comforting, at times forgetting to whisper. In a plangent tone – one she had repeatedly heard through the years – he begged her to not leave, to allow him another one of the million chances she’d already granted him; yet her greatest fear stood confirmed – she was about to plunge into another cycle of quiet acceptance. Daily life that could not be called living, because she merely existed on this never-ending path made of eggshells. Granted, she knew no other way, but she wished to learn. Oh, how she wished!  
  Perhaps now was not the time for her wishes to come true. Perhaps the payment to fate had not yet been made in full, and she simply had to come to terms with this fact. Grit her teeth and keep going. Assume the position… She chuckled to herself and felt it easier to breathe now that the king’s arms had relaxed. The moist forest air was mixed with the musk of his body, and Soley felt his closeness once again begin to play tricks on her mind. His scent reminded her of all the reasons she once loved him; his size of all the reasons why she still let him love her. With effort, she pulled herself towards his face where the deep wrinkles of anger were receding.  
  “Andi…,” she said, and he grunted in answer. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I cannot live like this, alongside your constant anger and changing moods.”  
  “Mmmmh…,” he said, for he did not have an answer for a statement he'd heard too many times.  
  “You went too far. You cannot simply throw people out of the lives of others if the whim strikes you.” Soley’s placating voice managed to help him maintain his calm for a moment, despite the clear accusation. “It’s destroying her.”  
  Andrues growled again; his muscles began to tense.  
  “What are you speaking about? I did what was suggested! Look at yourself, Soley! You ruined her before anyone else!” The mossy undertones in the forest air seemed to sober him up, and he appeared to be merely groggy at this point. No more did his lips slur words.  
  “I didn’t know, Andi. I didn’t know back then. I will fix it, I already found a way, but you need to let her go! She…”  
  “Go where? Where were you taking her?”  
  “Temeria.” Part of that was the truth, at least.  
  “Woman!” The king pushed Soley off his chest and sat up, the fast movements making his head spin. “You would have her travel that godforsaken land filled with criminals? You would have them maim her? Leave her by the side of the road as a cripple, her limbs chopped and insides torn, yet still alive? Were you thinking?!”  
  “Andi! You know I always think!” She scrambled to her knees and came over to him. “She is a clever girl, she can stay away from bandits, travel unnoticed. She needs to find that healer of hers, he can help her…”  
  Andrues swatted with his hand and tufts of moss flew into the air in a high arc. Soley felt the need to duck dramatically.  
  “Fuck him!” His yell, although muffled by vegetation, still frightened an owl to escape from a nearby tree, hooting. “You keep bringing him up as if he's important.”  
  “To Mai he is! Did you not realize that on your own?”  
  “To hell with what I realize or not! He’s dead. Lech took care of it.” Andrues struggled to stand. There was a certain satisfaction in his voice as he turned away, vomited violently, and suggested, “She will handle it. Water under the bridge.”  
  Soley could not even gasp at this revelation. She tried to get up, tripped on a branch and fell backwards.  
  “You are insane!” She refused his offer for help, instead slapping at his outstretched hand. “You weren’t supposed to have him killed! And you hoped Mai would return to Korrin now? You are fucking mad! You’ll stay here forever, in this hellhole, and she won’t do anything for you or Korrin or anyone else!”  
  “Stop. Stop now. Calm yourself. I knew that charlatan was going to defile her, without being told.” He picked her up despite her vehement protest. “I did what I thought was best.”  
  “Your best may have just ruined your chances ever to go back home, Andi. How could you have been so stupid?” Soley poked him in the chest with a finger and attempted to control her own fury. Her current lot notwithstanding, could she still achieve what she’d set out to do? She tried desperately to find correlations between a tragedy and her daughter’s wishes. Her hands lingered on the king’s chest, the thought process so intense that her body stopped moving and her eyes focused into the nothingness over his shoulder. She didn’t even notice that she’d begun to shiver.  
  “Soley… Soley, you’re freezing, dammit, and you've got no shoes,” said Andrues. He pulled her under the warmth of his overcoat, wrapped its lapels around her and blew warm air onto her hair. “Let’s go back. I don’t want you to become sick. If anything happened to you, I don’t know how I’d survive.”  
  Of course, of course! She exhaled, and relaxed, as if warming up from the embrace of her king’s overcoat and loving breath. A smile crept onto her lips.  
  “Andrues… We must make one thing absolutely clear. Do you still wish to finish what we started? Or have you finally given up and chosen to ruin the lives of your subjects instead?” She knew her willingness to stay would negate her stern tone.  
  Andrues grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to look intense in his fervent declaration, but succeeded only in a rather comical appearance. His eyelids still weighed as heavy as his mouth tasted foul.  
  “Of course I want to... How can you possibly think I wouldn't?”  
  “I can’t read your mind,” she said. “Rightly, I don’t wish I could. But if you're willing, I will stand by you and help you achieve it. Only…” She looked up to him. “Only, if you do exactly as I tell you. Only if you are truthful with her and me in every way. Truthful and kind.”  
  “Very well.” He sighed. “What did you have in mind? What shall you have me do? I will have Loede speak with her and explain all. He can talk anybody to death if…” The blunder escaped his lips before he could catch it, but Soley attributed it to his inebriation.  
  “No,” she said. “You will tell her yourself, out of respect. Own up to your mistakes, Andrues. You must, because if you do not, and she finds out from some gossiping servant, or worse, from Lech, she will forever lose trust in you. After you tell her, you will do everything in your power to make her want to go back to Korrin. Whatever she wishes. Do you understand?” She smiled. Her plan would work, after all. In the resulting confusion, she could then quietly slip away.  
  He lifted her into his arms, agreeing silently with all. She decided to feel safe again, close to his towering presence that would let no one harm her, if only for now. If I stay here, in his embrace, I will be well, she thought. Whisper him my advice. Bite him my love. Let him do what he pleases so that he will satisfy me. Only now matters.  
  His breath smelled of death now, as he kissed her; of rotting blood. He had no control over that smell, for his insides churned with at least three pints of it, but she kissed him back anyway. She was his beautiful elven queen, his partner, his mate, his confidant, his advisor, and the woman who took all his moods, whichever way they turned.  
  “Do you want to go up?” he said, and took her quiet moan as a yes. He twirled as they lifted from between the trees. Soley let out a squeal.  
  They flew over the forest, past the keep and above the sleeping city where night watchmen trudged the streets with their dim lanterns. They flew higher and higher, into the clouds that by now had begun to thicken. The king’s wings swirled the mist around them in familiar patterns.  
  She admired his strength and coordination for keeping them afloat, simultaneously in movement and remaining still. The slow whoosh of his massive wings which blew his hair in her face; how the leather of his overcoat creaked with an ancient sound while she teetered on the threshold of pleasure and pain. When they finally kissed again, the sharp tips of his fangs grazed the skin on her lips, but she did not mind, for her fingernails had scratched his neck just as hard.  
  “Soley…,” he said, almost humming.  
  “Yes?” Her exhausted hands slid down from around his neck, and she leaned into his arms, trusting him, confident in his skill.  
  “I love you...”  
  He wanted to stroke her face, to wipe the silver hair out of her eyes, to lean in and pierce the skin on her neck in the gentlest of ways.  
  She slipped away from his arm just as the first clap of thunder rang out. The neckline of her dress snagged on the buttons of his sleeve, but that did not stop her descent. She disappeared into the thick cloud below them faster than his body could react. Andrues screamed, dashed after her with the speed of an elder, and as lightning struck, became disoriented in the flash.  
  Soley called out for him in paralyzing panic, fluttered, fell, kept falling, the first raindrops followed her, she did not see him, but did see the cloud light up with static.  
  A door slowed her fall as she plunged through it. She brought its shattered remains with her, downward, deeper and deeper, not understanding where she had landed, and never being given a chance to find out. By the time she hit the bottom, her neck had already broken.

__

  …

  “Heddi! What in the hell are you doing?” Mai tried to scream over the roaring wind. The young vampire clearly struggled to carry her; from time to time she felt his arms slip as he adjusted, groaning and panting. “Put me down this instant!”  
  “I’m sorry, Mai.” His belabored voice fought the gale. “I’m sorry, your father was in a dangerous state, I had to pull you off the boat.”  
  “Mother!”  
  “He has her. I am so sorry.” Heddi lumbered on, rising and dropping with each flap of his thin wings.  
  “What do you mean you’re sorry? We must turn back! I can’t leave her at his mercy!”  
  “No!”  
  “Heddi, dammit! Let me go!” She pushed his arms, trying against all reason to get him to release his grip. Below her, the ocean rippled. The sea should be deep enough to catch my fall, she deluded. I could swim and save my mother. The vampire’s hold strengthened in response to her struggles.  
  She tried to turn herself, to grab his shoulder and swing around to face him. The leather straps and ties on his jacket ripped as Mai pulled on them with all her strength, twisting her body. Moment by moment it became easier for her to move as moisture from the clouds helped lubricate their leather outfits.  
  “Please, no! You will fall!” Once again Heddi readjusted his grip.  
  “I don’t care!” One more pull…  
  His hair hit her cheeks when she finally faced him, wet clumps forcing their way into her mouth and nostrils. Mai spat. Her arm barely reached over his shoulder, but she managed to grip the base of his right wing and pull it to his left as forcefully as her strength allowed.  
  “Ow! Stop!”  
  “Turn then! Turn on your own! Go back!”  
  “No! He will kill you!”  
  “Well, maybe I want him to!”  
  Mai didn’t expect Heddi’s reaction to be so sudden. Perhaps he tried to get a better grip on her. Maybe the combination of moisture and leather played a role. Maybe… No, he couldn’t have deliberately allowed her to slip from his arms. But he did. He let go, and she saw his shocked expression as she plummeted downward, his scream ringing in her ears.  
  Will I make it back to the boat? Is mother still there, struggling to gain control of father in his drunken state? Will it even be water I land into? Sharp rocks sticking out of it, ready to pierce my back as I fall? Or the beach, perhaps one of those giant boulders, and it shatters me into a thousand pieces, with nobody…  
  The black water swallowed her mid-thought. Her limbs splashed helplessly, not reacting to her commands, and reached out for something to hold on to. Water rushed under her clothes; its icy stinging felt almost therapeutic as the bubbles lifted her towards the surface. Mai relaxed her arms and prepared for that first breath of brine, as soon as her lungs allowed.  
  The breath came, but one of oxygen and droplets of seawater mixed with protest.  
  “I will not!” Heddi held on to her tighter this time, managing to do so despite her soaked outfit and heavy satchel. “Could you please just let me carry you home? It’s difficult enough as it is.” His breath smelled faintly of blood, the source of his courage to fly alongside the king.  
  Mai gave up struggling. Heddi was right, of course. At this point, there was likely nothing anyone could do. Father would quarrel with mother; they would have their usual screaming match, there would be cowering, cold shoulders, hurt glances… And a few weeks later everything would be well again. Father would apologize. There would be presents. Another post-fight honeymoon with midnight flights above the clouds. The usual.  
  She sighed and wrapped her arms around Heddi’s neck, embarrassed over her display of stubbornness. They flew in silence, closer to the ground this time.  
  Soon, the distinctive and welcoming smell of wet pines below them signaled the proximity of the keep. Heddi had by now become more accustomed to this flight; he spread his wings wide, allowed the wind to lift him and soared over the forest. They flew over the courtyard where groups of people had gathered to finish celebrating. There were giggles and laughter; someone sang a raunchy toon Mai recognized, a few people had taken her father’s horses out for a joyride, galloping through the city streets. Nobody looked towards the sky, nobody saw them approach, and nobody witnessed Heddi’s masterful plunge into the opened window of the attic room.  
  They landed on the floor with a splat. Nearly a liter of water drained from their clothes, another from Mai’s boot. Heddi shook his wings before folding them into his back, and more ice-cold water droplets sprayed them, making Mai shiver. Only now did she register exactly how cold she was.  
  “You need to warm up,” said Heddi.  
  “I need to get these wet clothes off.” She began to unbuckle her boot. “Help me pull this off, it’s stuck to my foot.”  
  The young vampire did everything she asked. He pulled off her boot, untangled her satchel from the laces on her jacket, brought her a blanket to hide under and finally turned his face into the corner between two bookshelves so that Mai could undress without embarrassment. She watched him stand, his face steadfast towards a shelf full of medical books, trying his hardest to stay motionless, but failing every time he made conversation.  
  “Wounds and lace-rations,” he said, reading from the spine of a thick tome, and turned his head towards Mai to ask a question. “Is that a…”  
  “Heddi!” She covered herself with the blanket, and the dry shirt fell on the floor. “And it’s lacerations, not lace rations…”  
  “I’m sorry!”  
  And so, it continued. Heddi could not fathom speaking to her without making eye contact. Yet, he needed to ask about every book title he noticed, every bottle of potion he thought interesting, and each time, his face would turn towards her without fail, full of wonderment and awe over the fascinating things Mai had collected over the years. Mai would yelp at him; he would apologize and turn back, mortified, and find another item to ogle over and question about. Finally, she managed to dress enough to stop scolding him at every turn, and even though it would have been alright for him to exit his corner, he continued standing, asking questions and sliding his fingertips over the backs of her books.  
  “Heddi,” she said, remembering at one point how his mind operated, and told him he could relax, that he could sit on the bed next to her and dry his clothes. Then she thanked him for being so brave and for making a right decision on his own.  
  The simplicity of his mind brought Mai peace. The clarity of his thoughts, the lack of negativity, hatred, and sadness allowed her to keep Heddi around without strain. She didn’t need to process his upset because he didn’t possess any of it. He brought with himself the childlike enthusiasm of a new student, one who found something beautiful everywhere he looked. Mai kept him around to fill a void that would otherwise have been occupied by some prying courtesan or an inquisitive dignitary. She kept him around to help her forget, and Heddi did his job wonderfully.  
  Thunder struck.  
  In the courtyard, the celebrating servants and courtesans began cheering at the first droplets of rain. Mai closed the window when their screams of glee became too loud and sat back onto the bed.  
  “I need to lay down, Heddi,” she said.  
  “Alright.”  
  “You should get up off the bed now.”  
  “Oh, oh, yes.”  
  Her body was too exhausted to move another muscle, she barely wished to speak, so she allowed Heddi to remain seated on the floor in front of her if that’s what he wanted to do. Perhaps he felt better as a protector, watching over her for old times’ sake. Her sleep, if it ever came, would be erratic tonight, but hopefully dreamless. As she drifted away, she could have sworn she heard her father call out for her mother.

  …

  Mai awoke to the stomping steps of her father on the spiral staircase. As her post-slumber confusion cleared, she heard him pause for a moment, heard him call out to the guards, and the orders he gave to remove Brigitte’s remains. An indifferent grunt or two later, when the shuffles of the sentry had faded, he continued the ascent, and she knew all too well Andrues was not delivering a meal to be left outside her door.  
  Heddi was still balled up on the floor, sleeping so soundly that she felt terrible having to wake him. Nevertheless, her father’s approach necessitated that the young vampire get up and leave, for the king’s unpredictability was, ironically, the only predictable trait he possessed.  
  “Heddi!” She shook his shoulder.  
  He woke with a start, his dream interrupted, screamed “No, I’m not!”, and slammed his flailing arms into the side of the bed, quite painfully.  
  “Father is coming.” She didn’t have to tell him twice or instruct him in detail. The final particles of Heddi’s mist oozed out through the cracks in her window just as the door opened and the king bent down to fit through.

  Mist form was fun for two minutes. At first, Heddi pretended to slide down the keep wall like mud, weaving himself over the cracks in the stone, downward and sideways, following their path. He circled around a particularly interesting outcropping – one that upon closer examination turned out to be a dining room window. When he reached the ground, where blades of grass pushed themselves up from between cobblestone pavers, he slithered low, hid between the legs of the partygoers, and made sure to not look up when he passed under skirts. It felt good to be good.  
  Bored of this game, Heddi materialized, walked amongst the people, knew they ignored him, smiled at the drunks and the pretty ladies, made his way towards the edge of the courtyard, and found a bench to sit on. He could see the attic room window from here. He understood that the king was in the middle of telling Mai something very serious, possibly sad, and it was best to be as far away from there as he could.  
  The king should not have been in the room with her, he didn’t know how to talk about death. Heddi knew that Andrues had probably killed the queen, thrown her from a great height onto rocks and shattered her. He was afraid of the king. Bad king. He made Mai cry, came to her, and had sadness with him and gave that sadness to Mai and made her cry. He should not have been the one telling Mai about death. It should have been an elf, someone who could paint beautiful pictures of an afterlife so glorious, death seemed a blessing instead of a tragedy. Or a parent. A good parent, who loved their child. Not one who used them, who hurt them. Heddi wished he could tell Mai he was sorry for all the pain. He wished he could keep telling her until she finally believed him.  
  Heddi laughed to himself when he saw a group of men burst into song, the meaning of which escaped him, but they seemed so happy to sing it. He wished Mai would sing sometimes. He wished he could sing to Mai. The attic room window stayed closed. Heddi became bored once more.  
  He took to flight. Owing to his earlier triumph of carrying her to safety from the sea, he felt courageous enough to soar over the city and marvel at the street lights; the way the glow reflected on the raindrops, the way the watchmen’s coats gleamed when wet, the way small streams of rainwater formed in gutters. Little by little, the city went dark as the night progressed, leaving fewer and fewer candles flickering in the windows. Just as the beauty of the lights, Heddi enjoyed the mystery of darkness the same. Spirits hid in the shadows, he told himself. Good spirits, ready to erase fear, to offer an embrace when most needed. Mai would need an embrace tonight, he thought. Maybe she would ask him? He smiled to himself at this hope.  
  The well was broken. The old, unused well that so often perplexed him. It missed a cover tonight, and rain surely kept pouring into it, making the baby cry. Oh no! The baby! Heddi landed on the empty street. Not a single house had a candle lit in the window. He listened. No, the baby was not crying. The townspeople had probably given the baby a toy. Townspeople were good, just like him. Once more, he smiled.  
  Lightning struck and frightened him. Wings didn’t like lightning, and mist bored him, so he ran. Water pelted his face, freezing water, like a river, or a forgotten bath. He slipped on the wet pavers, fell, and skinned his palm, but the wound healed quickly, and that amazed him. He fell once more, on purpose, carefully, to make up for the bad fall, so he could remember it as good. It felt funny to roll on the ground, he forgot the boredom of mist, turned into it again and oozed along the street towards the keep, raindrops tickling his very core. He laughed, and noticed how the laughter wasn’t just in his mouth or his throat or his chest – in mist form, the laughter overtook his entire being. He wished Mai could turn into mist and laugh like that, too.  
  The window! It opened, he saw it, he sped up and moved so fast it was nearly impossible. He had forgotten how fast he could move. Like lightning. It made him feel happy and strong.  
  The king had left. Mai looked ill, she struggled to stand. Heddi smiled. She needed him. Smiles help better than frowns, he remembered.  
  “Hug me, Heddi. Please,” she said, and he was glad to obey, glad to offer the embrace. “My heart just broke. It hurts.”  
  “Oh. Do hugs fix hearts?”  
  “That, they do. Good thoughts fix hearts, too. They make good feelings.”  
  “I didn’t know, and now I do. Thank you for telling me,” he said and smiled wider, even laughed a little. “I will think something very good for you. Thinking makes me feel smart. You’re very smart; you think a lot.”  
  He felt her sigh against his chest.  
  “No, Heddi,” she said. “It doesn’t always help to think. Sometimes it helps to do, and not think.”  
  “Then I am good. I don’t think often, I just do.”  
  “That makes you smarter than I am, Heddi.” She leaned her face onto his long hair for a moment. Heddi closed his eyes and imagined the best day, the best moment, so good he almost leaned down and kissed the top of her head, but he caught himself.  
  “That’s a very good thought, Heddi. What is it?”  
  “It’s a secret.”  
  “That’s all right, you can tell me, I won’t laugh.”  
  He could never tell her. Too embarrassing, he thought, and blushed, glad to be standing in the dark. He had to lie; Mai wanted good feelings and now he had to lie, and this was difficult to do. Heddi focused intently, spoke slowly, to not make a mistake.  
  “Then I will, since you promised. I am thinking about my first day, when Loede gave me a job and told me I could wash the floors and be important. That was a good day.”  
  She smiled at him. “Do you know why else you’re smarter than I?”  
  “No.” No more lying!  
  “You see good in everything. That is the best quality to have; I wish I knew how to be like that.” She pulled away from him and went to sit on the bed. Heddi waited until she invited him to sit beside her, as customary. No invitation, no sit.  
  “It’s easy,” he said. “You look at anything, and you see the good.”  
  “Is it?”  
  “Yes. Because good is everywhere.”  
  “Even here? See,” she handed him a melted chunk of metal. “You don’t have to keep watch for us anymore.”  
  Heddi took it and looked at it - at first with curiosity, then recognition. “This is Shartan’s medallion, is it not? You gave it to him, I remember. Why is it melted? Why don’t I have to keep watch anymore? Did he hire a sentry? Will he give the ducat to the sentry now?”  
  “So many questions, Heddi!”  
  “I am sorry.”  
  “That is all right. Father gave me the medallion, from Lech. Do you know what Lech does?”  
  “I do, I think. He takes people away, and they never come back. Does he kill them?”  
  “Yes. That is his job. But he is only supposed to kill criminals, bad people. And Shartan, he was not bad. Lech took him away and killed him, anyway. The medallion is… so I can have something to remember him by. Or maybe it’s proof that he is dead, I don’t know. Lech can be cruel.”  
  “That means no more experiments, right?”  
  “Right. No more. We were almost done with our work, and now it’s all for naught. Tell me, how is that good?”  
  “You don’t have to worry that someone will walk in on you now. You know, in the middle of an experiment. Make the air move in the room. Make the papers fly away.” Heddi began to trace the nearly faded letters on the back of the medallion. They were almost all gone, except for a few, and even those were hard to make out. “I found a T!”  
  “My mother is dead, too.”  
  Heddi fell silent for a few moments, to his own surprise, before reacting.  
  “I was afraid of that. Did your father hurt her?”  
  “No, he said it was an accident. That she fell.”  
  “Are you sad? Oh, I think this one is an E!”  
  “No. Am I wrong for not being sad, Heddi?”  
  “You are never wrong if you are telling the truth.”  
  “Are you sad? You look sad all of a sudden.”  
  “I do?” Heddi found himself having to force a smile. “Your mother was nice to me. Always told me I would get everything I ever wanted if I was good. It’s easier to be good than bad. Who will tell me to be good now?”  
  “You can. To yourself. It’s difficult at times, but you can do it.”  
  It was good advice. Heddi decided to take it.  
  She relaxed her head onto his shoulder, and a little shiver ran through his body. Rain continued to pour, pelting the cobblestone pavement in the courtyard, and making the morning gloomy and dark, just the way he liked it. The medallion wasn’t as interesting as Mai, but Heddi still examined it, because it was important to her. He bit it, smelled it, reflected whatever light came from the window onto its molten surface, and rubbed the smoother areas with his shirt sleeve. He wanted her to feel safe by his side, wanted her to know how good he was, that he would never hurt her, never go against her wishes. Heddi wanted her to appreciate him, like he appreciated her for never calling him a dullard or a simpleton, like the others.  
  In that moment, she did. Within him she saw the wisdom of the entire world.


	3. Chapter 3

   _Posted on the last day of this Feainn,_

   _May it be known that near the village of Cestersover there is a murderer on the loose. Yestermorn, the body of Jacek, the son of the blacksmith, was found mutilated in the root vegetable shed. For the peace of mind of the boys mourning parents, may they be blessed by the Ladies, a sum of five hundred Novigrad crowns shall be paid to whoever finds, confronts, and brings to justice the vile beast responsible for the said crime._  
   _Inquiries to be made to the blacksmith Hannes or the undersigned,_  
   _Alderman Prokse_

  Underneath this announcement, another lay folded, written in poor penmanship onto a thin piece of parchment.

   _Someone keeps steeling me potatos._  
     _Norma_

  Geralt stuck both notices back into his pocket. The nature of contracts didn’t concern him. He needed the coin.  
  Cestersover had grown larger since he cleared the area of bandits some years ago, yet the disorder seemed to have lingered. A new inn, undecorated, its sign a clumsily painted slab of wood, now stood by the road, and a few boats bobbled in the waves, but he saw no people around. Then a pig oinked as Geralt dismounted his horse – a single sign of life until he heard a child call out somewhere in the distance. A young woman in disheveled clothing dashed from her hut to the well, retrieved a pail of water and ran back. Finally, he saw an old man crouched over fishing nets by the shore, but regardless of the inhabitants, or perhaps because of them, the place looked gloomy.  
  The blacksmith – a wiry man in his forties – had closed shop early that day. The witcher caught him just as he was about to extinguish the flames under his forge. Already his apron hung on a hook by the anvil, and an unfinished axe lay waiting on the workbench. The appearance of a stranger seemed to agitate the man at first, but when he saw the two swords on Geralt’s back, the blacksmith perked up and managed a greeting.  
  “A witcher? Here?” he said. “Out of your way, I assume. What brings you to Mire Landing?”  
  Geralt looked around in the little shop and noted the well-crafted shields and hauberks on the wall. Judging by the axe, these were likely not the man’s own work.  
  “You Hannes?”  
  “That I am.” The blacksmith wiped his palms into a cloth and reached out for a handshake. “What can I do for you? I’m afraid my wares aren’t sophisticated enough for a witcher.”  
  “Geralt of Rivia,” said Geralt, gripping the man’s hand. “Came for the contract.”  
  The expression on Hannes’s face did not change. “Aah, my boy,” he said. “Been nearly a moon now that the monster took him.” He shook his head sullenly. “Sprightly boy he was, my youngest. Liked to run all over the village, nary a day went by he didn’t disobey my wife or me. That night, he wanted to stay up long past his bedtime, to ogle at the full moon.” The blacksmith sighed. “That’s what got him, ‘spose. Hiding from my Inge… Oh, how she called out to him! Drove the others to madness, nearly, her voice so loud.”  
  Geralt listened, arms crossed over his chest.  
  “He was but seven winters, witcher!” said Hannes, and Geralt winced. “Was pale like sun-bleached linen, he was, the monster had slashed him open and sucked out all his blood. Tell me, what kind of a creature does that? Didn’t think a werewolf to be a bloodsucker.”  
  “Who found him? Your wife?”  
  “No, no, ‘twas Norma, the innkeeper. My wife and I… We’d been searching the woods all night…” The blacksmith pursed his lips and turned away, looking as if he felt his son’s death to be his own fault.  
  “I’ll need to see this shed,” said Geralt. “But I’ll be honest with you, the chances of finding the culprit are slim if not nonexistent, tracks long since trampled over. You said it was a full moon that night?”  
  “That, yes. Was the biggest I’d seen in a while, bright and low it hung. Can’t rightly blame the child for wanting to see. I should have allowed him, gone with him, but hindsight is…” He adjusted his tunic and wiped the ashes from its hem, lost in thought. “Right, yes. The shed. It’s by the main road there, as you first enter the village. By Norma’s Inn.”  
  Geralt nodded and turned to leave.  
  “Witcher,” said the blacksmith.  
  “Yes?”  
  Hannes hesitated, twisting the rag in his hands.  
  “Do you need any help? Was in the army back in the day, fought the Nilfgaardians, I know how to handle an axe. I’m no tracker, but…”  
  “Out of the question. I work alone.”  
  “I wouldn’t be wanting any of the reward,” said the blacksmith. “Only justice for my boy. By my own hand.”  
  Geralt sighed. “That is not what I meant. Even if I were to find this beast – and it’s been a full cycle since… Anyway, it would be dangerous for you to interfere. Monsters like that, the bloodsucking kind, they can be unpredictable and very deadly. I wouldn’t want to risk your life, or my own, if things were to get out of hand.”  
  Although the blacksmith then agreed to stay out of the way, to hide in his house and wait until morning, it seemed that he would only be at peace if the killing blow to the beast came from his own weapon. Geralt left him standing in the shop. The sun still stood high; plenty of time to poke around the area and pick at the villagers’ memory.

  

  The old fisherman, mending his nets by the shore, eyed the witcher and offered a dismissive grunt when Geralt asked him if he’d seen anything suspicious that night. No, he hadn’t heard or seen a thing. However, the gods had been gracious, he then explained, pointing at the body of a drowner a few meters away.  
  “Found this’n around the same time the boy perished,” the man said, and poked the monster with a stick. The fish-like creature had indeed died some time ago, its scaly skin cracked and flesh rotted. “Didn’t rightly want to touch it, I hear they’re poisonous, but I tell you what – ever since it’s been laying here, ain’t no other drowner shown up. Been like a breath of fresh air, fishing has.”  
  Geralt crouched by the corpse, and despite the old fisherman’s protest, turned the drowner over. A set of fang marks were still somewhat visible on the creature’s neck. “You have a vampire in the area?”  
  “A vampire?” The man nearly dropped his netting needle. “Not that I know of. You serious?”  
  “Wouldn’t joke about it. Is that not what the villagers here are afeared of? Why I see no one around tending to their households?”  
  The fisherman picked up his tools and the half-mended net.  
  “Ain’t that,” he mumbled. “Who wants to be out in this weather? Near melts your skin off.” The man threw one last disgusted look at the drowner’s body and hurried towards his hut. Somehow Geralt found it difficult to accept his explanation.  
  He focused on the ground. Blood. Pools of it, splashes here and there, drag marks. A fight had taken place. The drowner’s blood around its corpse in a rancid mess; human blood in near faded streaks and drops. The drowner likely died before the body of a human – probably the boy – was first dragged, then carried away from the shore. Path of droplets moved towards the shed, meandering behind houses. Had two monsters battled it out over the boy? Had the vampire then wished to enjoy its prize in peace?

  

  Norma began to weep almost immediately after Geralt asked to see the scene of the crime. Her inn reeked of old sunflower oil, which is why he thought it unsurprising there were no patrons present. She blew her nose into the rag she was cleaning tables with, tossed it aside and walked with him to the vegetable shed. Her small frame and unkempt appearance elicited pity and disgust simultaneously, and this made the witcher feel awkward.  
  “You’re not here about the potatoes, I hope,” she said in an almost apologetic tone, her voice raspy and too old for her age. “Throw that notice away, I do not care anymore.” She struggled with the lock on the shed door but managed to get it open after a few tries. “You’re welcome to look around if that helps ease the pain poor Inge and Hannes have suffered.”  
  “You don’t care?” said Geralt, disappointed by the loss of a contract. “Did the thief stop coming?” He focused on the ground by the door anyway and found more evidence of blood.  
  “No, that’s not it. Even after I got a lock on the door, after Jacek,” – she sniffled – “every morning I find my sacks and barrels disturbed and a potato ruined. How they’re getting in, I don’t know, must be some kind of magic, but… How can I let a stupid vegetable bother me when a child has died? What kind of a callous heart –”  
  Geralt tuned her out and continued looking around. Blood droplets trailed on the trampled dirt floor towards the corner, towards the remains of a larger puddle. The outlines of it showed the way Jacek had laid on the floor, how he’d been moved, turned… And, clearly dead by then, drained.  
  A small item caught Geralt’s eye. He leaned closer, nose nearly to the ground. Under the folds of a potato sack, a neatly carved piece of peel stuck out, its bottom half drenched in dried blood.  
  “Madam,” he said, interrupting her moaning for a moment. “The morning when you found the boy… Had the thief come, as usual?”  
  “Of course! Was I not clear? They come every morning! That day there were two potatoes, one in front of the door and one back where they body lay. At first glance… You know, I thought it was him, taking the potatoes, the way he was crouched in the corner. Then I saw the blood, and I ran.”  
  Geralt guided the agitated woman out of the shed.  
  “I’ll need to keep watch tonight,” he said. “Lock me in, and by the morning I should have some answers.”  
  “But… I told you the thief is not important. How can you sit here and watch for potatoes when there’s a killer on the loose! I can make a stew with rutabagas and carrots just as well! Our village doesn’t have much, but we make do, we help each other out, even in times of such trouble. Especially in times of trouble.”  
  “Norma,” said Geralt, and locked eyes with her, which made the small innkeeper quiver. “Stay in your hut tonight, and do not come out if you hear sounds of a fight. This potato thief… It’s likely the killer as well, although I am yet to understand why they would want to steal your vegetables. Now lock me in. Night is about to fall.”  
  She gasped. “If that is true… If you can stop this madness, I will pay you. Ten gold and a pie are what you can get, and I stand by my word.”  
  He sat on the floor as the lock creaked to seal him in, and felt exhausted all of a sudden. This little village with its poverty and sadness wore on him, and he wanted out of here as soon as possible. Earlier in the day, when Roach’s hooves were caked in mud, and the woods became less and less lush as they approached the village, Geralt had known this was going to be an unpleasant experience, but he hadn’t anticipated anything like this. There were incongruous circumstances present that he just could not wrap his head around. Terrible creatures killing each other over human prey only to sneak away into a corner to julienne fresh vegetables. A village wracked by poverty, yet the alderman offers a lordly sum as the reward for the capture of a murderer. He climbed into an empty box by the wall and closed the lid. It smelled musty, of course, of dried dirt and remnants of rotten roots, but Geralt could have slept in it and felt rested. If only to never lay eyes on Cestersover again… In his wearied misery, he forgot to prepare for a fight.

  

  Night came slowly as usual, with the air vibrating above the dried riverbed and crickets increasing their lazy song as darkness fell. Geralt tried to ignore the uncomfortable stickiness of his shirt as it clung to his back. Sounds of village life grew even more scarce now, as families enjoyed their meager suppers and settled for rest. Sleep came for all, except for the witcher, who – trying to be vigilant, his cat-like eyes focused on his surroundings through the cracked lid – kept watch over the shed. The tell-tale clicking of a lockpick would come soon enough.

  

  The air suddenly moved by his nose. A presence, a rustling of clothes appeared as if rising from below ground. Directly in front of him – even with his cat-eyes he could see nothing in the room as a body blocked all view. It was a woman who smelled of dust, wool, remnants of long since faded perfume, steel, and blood right under his nose. Bent over a root vegetable sack a mere foot away, her back turned towards him, she grunted quietly, a fitting accompaniment to the sound of thudding turnips.  
  Geralt tensed. He knew now what he was up against. He also knew that he was not prepared. Perhaps he could buy some time. With that thought, he pushed open the lid to his hiding place and stood.  
  “What are you doing?” he said.  
  The woman, too surprised at his appearance, forgot to defend herself with posture or sound, instead turning to him, potato in one hand and a small peeling knife in another. Her black eyes and narrow face confirmed to Geralt that his fear over a vampiric presence had been genuine, but her demeanor was anything but threatening. For how long, that remained to be seen.  
  “Who… who…,” she said, and her eyes dashed around the room as if she expected Geralt to come with accomplices.  
  “Are you an owl?” said Geralt. His hand was at the ready to reach for the silver sword.  
  She chuckled, a wry and arrogant laugh, meant to mask her confusion with superiority – such usually seen in the courts of kings and emperors. By the looks of it, she may as well have been a member of such a court in the past. Her dress, albeit odd in construction and choice of material for this time of the year, was well crafted, with intricate details and rich notions. It had been yellow at one point; now faded, its edges frayed and seams torn. She wore a gray surcote decorated with a patterned ribbon and her hair plaited in elaborate braids which allowed the bulk of the curls to hang loose on her back. Geralt thought she looked quite pretty.  
  “Leave me alone,” she said finally, took a step backward and stumbled against the sack she’d just dug in. “I’m busy.” Again, her eyes flashed around, this time more towards the small window, from which the night sky was visible. There were no clouds tonight, just the moon and the stars.  
  “Busy stealing? What does a bruxa need a potato for?” Geralt watched the knife in her hand. She held it steady.  
  “None of your business.”  
  Geralt withdrew his sword, slowly enough to not startle her, fast enough to make her realize he wouldn’t allow her to make a single move. She saw the moonlight glint on its blade, that much he knew.  
  “Oh, but it is,” he said. “The potato is not yours. Answer me.”  
  “I owe you no explanation,” she said.  
  “This is where you’re wrong, madam,” said Geralt. “For starters, you must tell me about the boy you killed and then drained of blood during the last full moon. You can then follow with the explanation about the potatoes because your behavior is making no sense.”  
  She tensed and sneered at him. Her teeth became visible now – a straight row, sharp and strong.  
  “I did not kill that boy. I tried saving him from that nasty fish-man, yet arrived too late.”  
  “How noble of you.” Sarcasm weighed heavily in Geralt’s response.  
  “Don’t mock me, human! Do you think I kill for sport? For,” – she scoffed – “food? I saw a child in peril and decided to assist. When the boy died, I merely opted to make use of the situation, since resuscitation was out of the question at that point. It was a full moon and I hadn’t celebrated for a while.”  
  “Both a drowner and a boy, quite the celebration.”  
  “Of course not! That… drowner, is it called? It tasted disgusting! Like a fish! I hate fish!”  
  “It’s a full moon tonight,” said Geralt. “Do you have another celebration planned?” Still, he held his sword at the ready, for the grin on her face made him feel uneasy.  
  “Should I?” she said. “Are you offering yourself? That’s a splendid plan. I’d only take a little, you wouldn’t die.” And she tittered, still throwing glances at the window.  
  Geralt reached his left hand into his pack and felt around. The cork in the Black Blood vial had a chip in it, that much he remembered. With his thumb, he flicked the bottle open and – without removing his gaze from the bruxa – downed the foul contents in one swig. Just in case she wasn’t joking.  
  She watched his expression and skin color change, and the veins on his face turn blue. Geralt growled in a low, soft voice; helpful as Black Blood may have been, the taste of it was his least favorite and the effects it had on his body most unpleasant.  
  “You’re no human…” she hissed, crouching. “What are you?”  
  “I asked you a question first,” said Geralt. With the tip of his sword, he kicked the potato out of the confused bruxa’s hand, and the root rolled into the shadows.  
  She screamed and launched herself after it, fell to the ground and reached out her arachnid-like fingers, searching under the boxes and the sacks.  
  “What did you do?! Find it, find it!”  
  Geralt jumped in front of her. His toe kicked the potato out of her grasp.  
  “No! Tell me, what does a bruxa want with a potato?”  
  “If I don’t peel it, I will die!” She tried to dodge his legs. Once more, he kicked the potato, to the other end of the shed this time. She launched herself after it, failing miserably, as Geralt leaped over her body to block her way. They collided, fell, and tumbled into the corner on top of each other. “Lech will kill me if I don’t peel a potato before midnight, every night!”  
  “Who is Lech, and why would he kill you?” He struggled to push her hands out of reach as the potato eluded her by a mere span.  
  “The king’s executioner!” She grunted, stretched her hand, and forgot about her teeth, which she could have easily sunk into Geralt’s neck. “He granted me life. He was kind, said I was too pretty to die. But I have to peel. Or he will come. Let me!”  
  He managed to get his palm under her chest. A second later, the powerful blast of an Aard slung her towards the ceiling, allowing Geralt to roll out from under her. The bruxa slammed into the rafters, yelping, terrified, before falling down again and scrambling into the corner.  
  “Why were you punished?” Geralt snatched up the potato and held it just out of her reach.  
  “None of your business! Let me at my potato, or I shall be forced to kill you.”  
  “Foolish bruxa! You can’t kill a witcher,” he lied, and eyed his sword, which lay in the corner.  
  They stared at each other. The bruxa’s eyes shot towards the window once more.  
  “Please,” she said, quietly this time, submissively, and reached out her hand.  
  Midnight arrived. From far away, the bells of a church tower tolled, its sound carried towards them by the winds. A mere second later, someone began banging on the door.  
  “Lech! It’s Lech! He has come!” The bruxa was now near panic, her indecisive gaze bouncing between Geralt and the door. The banging continued louder; it sounded as if they tried to break the door down.  
  She screamed. A split moment later, she stormed Geralt, sunk her sharp teeth into his neck and yanked the potato out of his hand. He staggered backward as searing pain overtook him, and tried to regain his balance; the axe broke through the door.  
  “No, Lech! No! I’m peeling it! Look!” She raised her small knife, twirled the potato in her hand and within seconds the peel slid off in one continuous, perfect strip, spiraling towards the floor. She held the vegetable out in front of her, reaching it towards the door. “See! It’s done! Please don’t kill me!”  
  The door broke, boards falling away one after another from the strong hits of an unfinished axe. At the opening stood Hannes, his weapon held high as the last piece of the door fell to the ground.  
  “Who are you?” said the bruxa, the potato still gleaming in her outstretched hand. “You’re not Lech.”  
  “Hannes, stop, do not move!” Geralt held himself up against the wall, grasping his pulsating neck, and fought against losing consciousness. “Not a step closer, she can be dangerous!”  
  “This lady?”  
  Geralt groaned. “She’s no lady,” he said, eliciting an insulted gasp from the subject of this affront. “She’s a bruxa, a vampire.”  
  “You killed Jacek!” said the blacksmith and swung his weapon.  
  How Hannes had survived the Nilfgaardian battles, Geralt did not understand. His axe, which he swung from left to right in the bruxa’s general direction, flailed helplessly, its haft too flimsy to support the heavy head. She easily leapt away from him at first – although the sacks and boxes blocked free movement – but soon he saw a change in her demeanor. She tried to blink into invisibility a few times, her body flickered, confusing and angering Hannes even more, but she was not successful. Instead of anger, she became anxious, dropped her knife and the potato, and finally stumbled, weakened; likely from the Black Blood-laced bite she’d taken out of Geralt’s neck.  
  “No!” she screamed, and raised her arm in defense from the blows of the axe.  
  Hannes kept swinging. His weapon shattered boxes around her, slinging vegetables around in a violent manner.  
  “Hannes, stop!” yelled Geralt. "She didn't kill your son!" But the blacksmith would not relent. His thrashing paid off when he finally hit her in the back, and she fell, screamed, pleading the witcher with her eyes. She was no killer.  
  He had no other choice but to interfere. The weak Aard he threw towards the blacksmith still knocked the man into the corner and the weapon out of his hand, but now they all lay – the bruxa in her death throes, the witcher from exhaustion the bite had inflicted, and the blacksmith from the blow. The destruction stopped, the rolling vegetables settled.  
  “What are you?” whispered the bruxa. “Why am I not regenerating? What is happening to me?” There was finite desperation in her voice.  
  “I’m a witcher,” he said. “I kill monsters like you. I can help you with Lech.”  
  “You can? You can drive him off?”  
  "Yes. You don't have to do this."  
  She sighed. Her eyes glazed over. She was gone.  
  Geralt laid his head on the ground and exhaled. The Swallow would help in recuperation, but the weariness in his bones didn’t allow him to stand just yet. He closed his eyes. The blacksmith shuffled in the periphery of the witcher’s hearing.

  

  Geralt woke with a start a few hours later to the rooster crowing. Sun had not yet begun to peek through the shed window, and the floor was pleasantly cool. He closed his eyes for a few moments longer; the musty solitude of the shack treated him well, and he needed the rest. Later, when the children’s laughter and sounds of village life became too bothersome for dreams to continue, he awoke in earnest and searched the bruxa’s body for any valuables.  
  She had nothing on her besides a peeling knife and a comb. No coin, no identifying papers or books, only a thin steel bracelet hidden under her sleeve. Geralt felt remorse for her ruined dress, but pulled it off anyway and stuffed it in his pack with the chain. Perhaps a merchant in the darker alleys of Novigrad looked for a bloody, torn outfit or a piece of cheap jewelry. With a sigh, he stuck his hunting knife into her neck and began to saw. The five hundred crowns he had earned already commanded a spot in his coin pouch.

  

  …

  

  Alderman Prokse’s wide mouth looked like that of a frog, the resemblance so uncanny that Geralt expected him to roll out a long pink tongue and catch a fly from the air when the officiant began to speak. The portly alderman also sported a bright red complexion, complemented by his purple nose – an indicator of his love for drinking. Several empty bottles littered the floor by his desk, all of them poorly hidden behind stacks of books. The stench of hooch was overwhelming in the room.  
  “Ahem… How can I help you, witcher?” Said the alderman, clearing his throat.  
  Geralt released the bruxa’s head from his belt and tossed it on the floor in front of him. The head, its eyes glazed over, rolled towards the table and came to a stop by one of the book stacks. Alderman nudged the trophy with the toe of his boot and wrinkled his nose.  
  “I see,” he said.  
  The witcher leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stretched out his legs. He could not imagine how the alderman could see anything - the spectacles perched on the man’s massive nose were the dirtiest Geralt had ever laid eyes on.  
  “I did what the contract required,” he said and threw the crumpled parchment onto the table. “Pay up.”  
  The alderman picked the paper up, tried to read it, failed, lifted his glasses, and reread the contract.  
  “Honestly,” he writhed, “wasn’t really expecting anyone to show up.”  
  Geralt remained silent.  
  “Cestersover is far from other villages,” said Prokse. “The road here is perilous, to say the least. The contract… Well, I hung it only to please the boy’s parents. Ain’t nothing gonna bring the child back to life, no matter how badly you punish the criminals. This has been a tough winter for the village. What with the bruxa around, and the war… we lost seven pigs to the cold in Yule. I’m afraid I have nothing to pay you with. Merchants rarely happen to find their way into our village. We’ve no goods to barter with and no way to make coin.”  
  Geralt tilted his head. The war was over. The winter had been mild.  
  “Is that so?” he said.  
  “True,” said the Alderman, adding to his agreement with a nod. “We’re cut off from the rest of Velen, pretty much. During fall when the rain brings floods, no roads lead here. It’s hard to make a living, what with no farmlands and nothing but fish to feed us for the winter.”  
  “That ‘Est Est’ float here in a crate during one of those floods? Tidings from the river?” Geralt gestured towards the empty bottles with his chin. “Expensive, that. Can run you upwards seventy crowns, or more, for one bottle. Does Norma know you’re selling pigs to support your habit, all the while food is scarce? Making her count each damned potato?”  
  Visibly uncomfortable, the alderman began sifting through his desk drawers, shuffling through stacks of parchment. An empty bottle fell, prompting the man to jump awkwardly in his chair, embarrassed.  
  “Very well, I’ve something here,” he muttered to himself and pulled out a scroll. He laid it on the table and pushed it towards the witcher. “Just, please… Don’t tell Norma. I’ve a problem, yes, I acknowledge that, but there’s no need to let her know.”  
  Geralt, not moving from his position, threw a glance at the offering. “Doesn’t look like a pouch filled with coin to me.”  
  The alderman unrolled the parchment, lifted it as if he was the town crier, but did not utter a sound. Instead, he nodded to himself, allowed the document to roll up on its own and leaned closer to hand it to Geralt.  
  “‘Tis all I have. Please, take it. Please. Our last valuable, really. We’ve but one pig left.” He looked pitiful as he said it, shaking the document.  
  The witcher pushed himself up from the chair, reached for the scroll and unrolled it. The paper felt more substantial than usual; as if two layers had been glued together to make one durable and longer lasting sheet. The edges curled inward slightly, and he could see the four nail holes where it had been affixed to a board. All in all, like a standard contract by appearance, except for the lack of writing on it. A large seal dangled from the bottom corner.  
  “What is this?” he asked, and threw the parchment back onto the desk, knocking over a poorly stacked pile of receipts. The alderman rushed to save his paperwork.  
  “No, no, Master Witcher. Please, accept it. Look, the seal. Look at the coins hanging from it. They’re pure gold. Worth at least three hundred Novigrad crowns each!” He unrolled the parchment once again and pointed at the discs dangling on blue ribbons.  
  Geralt snatched the paper back from Prokse and scrutinized it. Only now could he see remains of writing, faded ages ago. The coins had a dull glow about them, and were heavy in his palm, warming quickly to the touch. They were as wide as a noble’s soup spoon, thick, with nicks and scratches on their surface, yet all their splendor still visible. Chances were these coins stood to bring in a lot more than the alderman suggested.  
  “Three hundred crowns, you say? We shall see.” He stood and adjusted his belt. “If you lie, I will come back. For my pay and to tell Norma all about you.” He stared at the alderman longer than Prokse deemed necessary. “Keep that in mind.”  
  The witcher then ripped the seal off the parchment, threw the useless paper back onto the alderman’s desk and walked out, slamming the door.  
  Oxenfurt was a day’s ride away. Norma’s pie would keep him company on the road. It was odd looking, with fish heads sticking out of its crust, but surprisingly good. Geralt smiled and urged Roach to a gallop. A day’s ride? He would make it in half.


	4. Chapter 4

  Geralt arrived late in the afternoon when the market stalls were already closing. The city had a lazy air about it; its inhabitants, worn from the heat of the summer, dragged their feet, and merchants barely wanted to call out their wares. The stench of sewage was overwhelming by the river, and Geralt hurried along, ignoring the mockery of children and beggars. The swords had begun to weigh him down; by now, he had but one goal – to make it home to the small house near the University, where Yennefer no doubt waited, and to collapse onto his bed. Tonight, he would not mind her complaints. Tonight, he would sleep well.  
  Their home was quiet when Geralt entered; candles in the entry hall unlit, and the air stagnant. He listened for her steps in the bedroom but heard none, yet his senses told him she was there. Trying his best to make as little noise as possible he laid the swords on a bench by the door and snuck up the stairs. In the kitchen, the table was clean and the breakfast tray untouched. In the study, parchments and books lay neatly on the table, and the ink on the quill had dried days ago. A single candle worked hard to stay lit on the last few millimeters of its wick in the bedroom, and the clothes folded onto the dresser hadn’t been moved in a while. A head full of dark, curly hair peeked out from under the blanket on the bed.  
  He sat by her and watched her sleep, her breathing slow and peaceful, her face pale and thin. Medicine bottles on the bedside table were empty. The instructions – the apothecary usually tied them to anything prescribed by a doctor – had been ripped off, read, and stacked in a pile under a thick gold bracelet. She’d taken them all as her surgeon ordered and now lay in bed day after day, not willing or able to move much, as the concoctions worked their way through her body, adjusting tissues. The exhaustion was a hefty price to pay, but he’d told her that the procedure she longed for would be that much more successful if she’d listen to his advice. And so, she did.  
  Without removing his boots, Geralt laid down on his side of the bed and stared at the ceiling for a few moments before closing his eyes. The weary contentment he always felt at home began to settle in.

  “Geralt! You smell horrible!”  
  “Huh?”  
  “And you’ve boots on in bed!”  
  He had almost managed to fall asleep. Now, his head groggy, Geralt swatted around to reach the bootlaces and listened to her usual spiel with one ear – the other focused on the silent half of the room.  
  “That village must have been a dump, you reek of manure and old dirt! Did you manage to fulfill that contract? Please take a bath, at once! Every time I must remind you…” Yennefer squirmed around and covered her mouth with her hand as if the stench wafting from Geralt nauseated her.  
  Sleep was simply not going to happen. No matter, Geralt thought. The second wind had come during the moments of blissful unconsciousness a minute ago, anyway. True, his joints creaked as he forced himself to get up, but that was nothing a hot soak wouldn’t remedy.  
  It wasn't yet time to be drawn into a lengthy conversation about his adventures, either. Even though he knew how important it was for Yen to hear of the outside world, the detailed descriptions of the places he’d visited and the people he’d seen, it was best left for a later moment – after the bath had been drawn.  
  Bare feet felt good on the old wooden floorboards, and the sounds the stairs made as he drudged up and down, carrying pail after pail into the round tub in the middle of the bedroom, made him forget they lived in a bustling city.  
  While he busied himself with filling the tub, Yennefer needed a lovelier image to gaze upon, so he conjured up a visage of her sitting on a white marble bench under a blooming cherry tree. She wore a white dress with lace cuffs and a ruched neckline. Her hair fell over her shoulders in a cascade, and in her arms, she swaddled a newborn babe. The dream-Yennefer smiled at the child, swayed gently, and her lips whispered words so sweet, even Geralt’s imagination couldn’t fathom them.  
  “Oh, Geralt, that’s lovely,” gushed Yennefer. “What’s his name? He’s adorable!”  
  Geralt lifted the final pail off the hearth, being careful to not scorch his trousers, and brought it upstairs.  
  “I don’t know what his name is, Yen,” he called out. “I only imagine it. For you. What would you name him? Or maybe it’s not him at all?”  
  “Oh, it’s him. A strong child. Look how his arms are reaching up towards me. I shall name him after his father.”  
  Geralt winced, and perhaps the image in his mind faded for a moment.  
  “Have you decided on one yet?” he heard his mouth say. That he had to ask this question… It made him near sick to his stomach.  
  “Father, you mean?”  
  Geralt made it to the bedroom with the last pail of water. “Yes. And don’t tell me you’ve picked Istredd.”  
  “Well, in that case, it’s you. I’ve decided on you.”  
  “Your sense of humor is as dark as your hair, my dear,” said Geralt, and began unlacing his shirt. The bath wasn’t getting any hotter.  
  “Just take a bath with your clothes on,” she said, struggling to rise into a sitting position. “You’re filthy all over, and this way we don’t need to pay a laundress. Besides, were I to see you in the nude, I might… I’ve no strength to join you in the tub.”  
  His fingers continued pulling on the shirt strings. Yen eyed him with half contempt, half admiration.  
  “You’re not listening,” she said, her voice low and somber.  
  “When did you last bathe?” Geralt did not take his eyes off his beloved, as he pulled the shirt over his head.  
  “Don’t rightly remember,” she said. “Last you were… Aah!”  
  He snatched her up, nightgown and all, sheets fell, the blanket crumpled, and the warm water began to rise as he lowered them both into the tub.  
  She sat on his lap, neck-deep in soothing liquid, and he felt her muscles relax one by one – the muscles which diminished and softened as days and weeks went by – just as his pants relaxed its wrinkles and the caked dirt on them melted away. He held her, cradled her like the dream-Yennefer had cradled the child, and she closed her eyes.  
  As he lathered her body with the lilac scented soap and dripped water onto her hair, careful to avoid her eyes, glimpses of memories began rushing through Geralt’s mind. Like imps, they jumped out from the dark corners of his brain, made themselves known and relinquished the spotlight to another flashback. Moments shared with Yen, all of them, the troubling ones, the memorable ones, the ones that made his skin crawl and the ones that made his body tingle. All leading to now. To the tub, with steam rising from its surface and her cambric nightgown’s hem floating like a ghost under the water.  
  Was it all worth it? Had these experiences taught either of them the lessons necessary to rear a child, one Yennefer so longed for? Or to accept the inevitable, were the surgery not successful and her lifelong dream not achieved? Why did these thoughts even enter his mind? Why could he not enjoy sitting with her during this peaceful moment, while it lasted, instead of being tormented by the past?  
  They’d been on this path for too long, he suddenly realized. Both of their bodies and minds as if running on inertia, slinging themselves forward towards a goal, knowing it may be out of reach, yet unable to stop. He’d covered nearly every corner of Temeria, taking a contract here and lifting a curse there; dispatching groups of bandits and finding lost children in the woods – and from these jobs, saved up eight thousand gold. Twenty-two thousand less than needed.  
  Yen dozed off, her head resting on his shoulder. Geralt brushed a wet lock off her cheek. Did she despair at times, when alone with her thoughts, at the length of the journey still ahead of her? Did she cry, wondering how others had done it, suffering through such torture to bear a child of their own? Could she go through it, her body already in such a state that he could not imagine it any worse? This small woman, living a life she was not used to, a life with no spells, no power, no banquets, no beauty… And was he insane for willingly going through it with her? For agreeing to raise a child he could not sire?  
  She stirred, perhaps feeling his concern, and woke. Her violet eyes opened, and for the first time Geralt saw a small wrinkle in the corner of the left one – so small, it was not worth mentioning, yet still there. He ignored it, just as he ignored the lightness of her body and the lack of her touch.  
  “I’m hungry,” she said. Sweet words, ones she needed to say more often. Ones that nudged Geralt out of his deep mire, and urged him to finish what he’d started. The sliver of soap, worn and thin, barely clung to his hand, yet managed to lather up well.  
  “And what strikes your fancy?” he asked, before wrapping Yennefer into a towel and lifting her back onto the bed.  
  “A pork chop, with plums,” she said, snuggling in with the blanket, warm, comfortable, and clean. Her tone of voice and demeanor spoke of only one expected outcome to her request.  
  He couldn’t tell her no, even with only ten crowns in his pocket. Ten crowns, the crumbs of a fish pie and a red wax seal from which the gold coins hung. Not enough for a decent meal – especially the plum-sauce pork chops – but Geralt did not make that into a problem. Eight thousand gold in the bank, surely he could use some of it. Plenty of contracts to be had still, and he could quickly make back the forty or fifty needed.

  …

  “Go away, the bank is closed!” came Vivaldi’s voice from behind the bolted door. Geralt persisted, all the while trying not to attract the attention of the city guards.  
  “Vivaldi, it’s me, Geralt! Open up!”  
  Inside, a chair scraped against the floor, followed by the sound of footsteps. One after another, locks began opening and chains were lifted. A few minutes passed, and the massive door cracked just enough for one of Vivaldi’s eyes to peek out.  
  “Aah, it is you. Geralt, what a pleasure! Come in, come in!” With that, the dwarf allowed the witcher to enter, closed the door and reattached all the chains. That took another several minutes.  
  Piles of gold and silver coins graced the top of the banker’s table where he had undoubtedly been busy counting them. Several books, opened at various pages, laid strewn about; in the middle of it all, a large quill sat in an engraved ink pot. An unusual sight for Geralt, who knew the banker to be an organized and neat dwarf, especially when it came to money. The witcher wrinkled his nose, and for a moment, considered taking his business elsewhere.  
  “So!” Vivaldi stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his brocade vest and stared up at Geralt. “What brings you here at this ungodly hour, when all decent citizens are asleep in their beds?”  
  Geralt didn’t have time to start taking hints.  
  “Yen was hungry. I’ve ten gold in my pockets, not enough for what she asked for. Given her mood, I felt it necessary to see if you’d let me make a withdrawal at this hour.”  
  Vivaldi raised both eyebrows. “Ooh, you don’t say? Midnight cravings?” He nudged Geralt in the side and winked. “Are congratulations finally in order?”  
  “No, no. Far from it. She just wants some pork chops. And she doesn’t eat much lately, Von Gratz has her on a very grueling regimen. Naturally, I jumped at the chance to feed her. Worries me, really. But never mind that, Vivaldi. I’ll take fifty from our account, if I may.”  
  The dwarf pulled another large book out of the shelf and laid it on top of the already open ones on the table. The heavy wooden covers of it were as big as window shutters, yet Vivaldi handled the tome with grace, flipping through pages quickly until he found the correct entries.  
  “Von Gratz, huh?” he muttered, and spat. “I would have told you to stay away from that quack, but suppose it’s too late to come forth with my advice now.”  
  Geralt shifted from one foot to another and stuck his hands into his pockets.  
  “I’ll tell you this as a friend, and don’t repeat my words to anyone,” continued Vivaldi, all the while making complex entries into the book, “but the speed at which that man has amassed a fortune in the past two years boggles even the most calculative of minds. He’s performing surgeries alarmingly often, all of them expensive, delicate, and dangerous. I’m no doctor, but that cannot be good. Here.” He finished scribbling, separated five stacks of coins from the rest and scooted them across the table towards the witcher.  
  Geralt, his mind muddled from what he’d just heard, pulled out his coin pouch. The seal fell out, its ribbons tangled onto the bag for a second before the entire thing plummeted to the floor, but he didn’t notice. Not feeling the need to count anything Vivaldi pushed his way, Geralt stuffed the pouch and ground his teeth.  
  “Tell me more, Vivaldi,” he said. “Tell me what do you think he is doing, because if anything happens to Yennefer… I’ll be glad to express my concerns over it to von Gratz, directly. Very directly.”  
  “I will tell you!” The dwarf slammed the massive book shut and returned it to the shelf with some difficulty. “I will tell you what he did to Yaromir’s wife! The woman went to see von Gratz to have… erm… well, I’ll leave that part of the events unmentioned, but she ended up paralyzed afterward! Can you believe it! Unable to walk! That surgeon had the gall to claim it was her own fault for jumping out of bedrest so soon after the procedure, that some of her nerves hadn’t adequately healed yet, and this is what caused the complications, but I have a good mind to claim this was his negligence! Slashing at her groins with a scalpel... He severed those connections himself, hurrying to stitch her back up and run to the next patient who has a fat wallet!”  
  Geralt was suddenly in a hurry. He stuffed the pouch back into his pocket with shaky arms and turned to leave. He briefly considered stopping by the University before heading home - it had been a while since he had exercised his negotiating skills. Using von Gratz’s apparent greed and incompetence, he hoped to throw in some practice; perhaps they could come to an understanding before his persuasion skills had to come out to play. Yet, going home to Yen remained his priority. On closer thought ruffling the surgeon’s feathers before a critical procedure did not sound like a good idea.  
  “Geralt,” said Vivaldi and bent down to the floor. “You dropped something.” His eyes opened a bit wider when he picked the wax bauble up, turning it this way and that way. The coins clinked.  
  “Ooh, now this is something! Where did you get this, White Wolf?”  
  Geralt stopped. “From a contract, as payment. They didn’t have any gold to give me. Why?”  
  “These coins,” continued Vivaldi, “are collector’s items, Geralt. Worth a pretty penny.” He clutched the seal into his palm and lifted his eyes towards the witcher. His demeanor changed from an arduous banker to a greedy haggler in an instant. “Simply standing here holding two of them… Would you be willing to sell these to me?”  
  “These?” The witcher turned away from the door and tried to avoid staring into the dwarf’s pleading eyes. “What makes them so special? What even are they?”  
  “Eysislan ducats. Not circulated as currency in Temeria, but accepted by bankers for their value in pure gold. And rarity, since only a limited number has ever appeared here, and to get them… Well, one would have to go to Eysisla.” Vivaldi chuckled; a nervous chuckle of someone afraid to lose out.  
  “Never heard of Eysisla. Therefore I don’t see why I need to hold on to them,” said Geralt, inspiring hope in the banker. “How much would you give me?”  
  “A man with such worldly knowledge, and never heard of Eysisla?” Vivaldi rolled the coins around on his palm. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Perhaps your guardian angels have protected you from it, and an excellent job they’ve done, indeed. But, back to the matter at hand. Current exchange rate for this much pure gold is – don’t look at me like that, Geralt, I can tell how much a coin weighs by touching it – is nine hundred and sixteen Novigrad crowns.”  
  “How much? For both, I assume?” Geralt was amazed; this figure excited him so much, he paid no attention to the banker’s quiet warning.  
  “No, for one,” said the dwarf and walked over to his desk. “One thousand eight hundred and thirty-two for both.”  
  “Vivaldi, since when did you start joking about money? This seems pretty unbelievable.”  
  Vivaldi busied himself with counting out coin. His stout fingers worked fast, filling a leather pouch with the correct amount. A quick entry into the books and the banker handed Geralt his money.  
  “No, Master Witcher. I do not joke about money. But since I know you, and know how your mind works… And especially since you need to gain some knowledge…”  
  He reached over to his bookshelf and dragged out an atlas almost as massive as the table. Balancing the tome on the edge of a chest of drawers, Vivaldi beckoned Geralt to approach.  
  “See here.” He turned the pages, struggling with the one he needed. “This one always gets stuck…”  
  Geralt felt a twinge of embarrassment over the lack of his geographical knowledge. The mass of northern land, divided into half by a mountain range, held within it two kingdoms – Eysisla on the left and Ainethia on the right. Geralt leaned in for a closer look and traced his finger on the roadways of the map. Several larger cities caught his attention. Raeval, the capital of Eysisla, and a smaller town south of it – Darpat. Ainethia seemed to him to only be covered by vast plains. He saw but one city – Morah – several roads leading outward from it, but ending nowhere.  
  Vivaldi closed the atlas and put the book away. Geralt scratched his head.  
  “I best get on my way, master Vivaldi, it’s late.”  
  “Indeed. Allow me to let you out. And don’t let bandits smell coin on you,” he chuckled and began un-chaining the door.  
  “Vivaldi…” Geralt stopped. “That seal was on a faded parchment. Might have once been a contract. Any chance you know what it was about?”  
  Vivaldi sighed.  
  “Years ago, maybe a hundred, two hundred, or so I’m told? Anyway, those seals with the coins appeared in Temeria, Redania, Cintra… Being brought to banks and exchanged. A parchment you say? Contract? Never once have I seen a seal still attached to one, nor heard what may have been written on it. No doubt people didn't care, as long as they could profit from the coins. Perhaps it wasn't a contract at all. But I tell you what,” he gave Geralt a knowing look. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Coincidently, those were the exact words Yennefer said when she saw the pouch filled with coin and heard Vivaldi’s story. Just in case, Geralt left the part about von Gratz out of their conversation.  
  “There’s only one way to find out,” she said, and cut into the pork chop for another morsel. “If you can make this much coin from only two ducats… Geralt, imagine how fast we could amass the amount needed for this surgery! We’d need –,” she did some calculations in her head, “– only twenty-four of them, and that would make the twenty-two thousand crowns we lack. You should go.”  
  And he went. Von Gratz escaped meeting the witcher this time and likely avoided meeting his fists, his swords even. Geralt spent one last night at home, sleeping soundly and to his heart's content, and headed out early in the morning. 

  …

  Ciaran began coming to the Inn regularly when he received word of the advertisements appearing around Skellige and Temeria. The one that had hung in Kaer Trolde now hid in his pocket, coins and all, away from the prying eyes of the citizens who might have become enticed to heed its advice. The old vampire had no reason to believe too many notice boards in Ard Skellig or the neighboring islands fell victim to these placards, but he felt confident that every town from Novigrad to Nilfgaard had been plastered with them. In no way could he remove them all – but he could reach the weak souls who’d read them and felt the pull of fortune a bit too strongly.  
  So, he began to show up at the Inn at Kaer Trolde. All the adventurers passed through here. He would speak with them, inquire about their destination. He would ask them to return home.  
  He’d saved a couple of the young ones from the unfortunate fate of becoming vampire feed. At first, men and women came in masses, two Eysislan ducats in their pockets, ready to embark on the long voyage and happier still when they discovered that passage was free. As years went by, their numbers diminished, only to dwindle to near nothing after a while, yet Ciaran continued to show up at the Inn regularly and sat at his usual table once a month, while the Eysislan sailors behind him enjoyed their land leave with pitchers of ale and a roast piglet.  
  Some travelers fought his request, called him a fool, insisted to board the ship – and did, never to be seen again. Some considered it, listened to his reasoning, weighed their options – yet they, too, chose to leave. Most of the time. A few took his advice and boarded the next boat back to Temeria. But only a few, not nearly enough for Ciaran’s taste.  
  He remembered one young woman particularly well. She’d been only a girl then, barely into her teens – a runaway from home. He didn’t ask her for the reasons she left Temeria. She’d been so full of hope and sense of accomplishment, speaking to the innkeeper about passage, that Ciaran nearly chose at first to not approach her at all. Still, when she ran to the pier to catch the boat, he’d been there, intimidating, discouraging, near fatherly.  
  Her face, beaten and bruised, and the story she told him of her ordeals, were the only ones that made him step aside.  
  That was thirty years ago.  
  Since then, no passengers came, no one wished to visit Eysisla.  
  It was for the best.  
  Yet Ciaran sat at his usual table every month, and each time the sailors drank ale and ate piglets.  
  So many piglets…

  The book Ciaran was reading nearly grabbed all his attention that day. Brill von Rahlenshtahl’s “Ruminations over the nature of Immortality in the Era of Vampiric Glory”. A thin volume, yet one filled with plenty of material to commiserate over, for the old vampire did not agree with a single statement this man made. With scorn he read paragraph after paragraph, beating himself for not bringing his journal along so he could take note of the disturbing thoughts now clashing in his head; the ponderings so painful that he almost missed the tall white-haired man who spoke to Jonas about passage to Eysisla.  
  “Master Ciaran!” The innkeeper waved at him, a hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. “Aren’t you going to stop that man from boarding?”  
  The front door had by then already closed behind Geralt.  
  “…this sense of urgency…,” mumbled Ciaran under his breath, reading aloud a passage from the book, and scoffed. “What sense of urgency? That fool! There is no sense of… What?”  
  Jonas gesticulated towards him over the clamor of the patrons, describing with his hands a tall man with two swords on his back, headed towards the boat. Ciaran nearly forgot to pay for his meal.  
  He recognized immediately what profession the tall white-haired man held, from his swords and his gait, the smells of herbs, and the faint air of toxicity around him. For a moment, he hesitated. This wasn’t necessary, he thought. The vampires would prove no threat to someone like him, no doubt the witcher had dispatched many in his lifetime and could manage well wherever the Eysislan roads took him. Ciaran stopped, pulled his hood up and sighed in relief. No humans would travel to meet their peril today. Nobody had to get hurt.  
  Then it struck him – the image of the witcher, a silver sword held high above his head, slashing away at the old vampire’s loved ones. One by one they fell to the blows, whether weakened from his poisonous blood or too severely wounded to defend themselves. Ciaran flinched – from the sudden realization of the danger, and from his own stupidity of not concluding it earlier. The witcher had not made it to the ship yet, his white hair still visible amongst the crowd on the pier. Sailors prepared to depart. The bell on board rang once. The old vampire almost ran.  
  He expected the witcher to sense his presence, to turn around at any moment and drill into him with questions, but no such thing happened. Instead, the witcher moved along, fixated on the black ship with blue sails, where some sailors may or may not have spread their wings to fly between the masts.  
  Ciaran thanked the heavens for this chilly weather – it began to snow gently, even though the time of the year was not yet ripe for this kind of precipitation. It allowed him to hurry along, and he forgot to worry about his walking stick sometimes getting stuck in between the boards of the pier.  
  In his head, Ciaran prepared the usual speech about not boarding, this time peppered with shouts of distraction, were he not to make it on time to prevent the man from stepping onto the gangplank, but there was no need for it. The witcher turned when he reached the ship. His eyes, yellow and cat-like just as expected, drilled into the vampire with curiosity.  
  The good-natured demeanor of this witcher was immediately apparent. Ciaran had met others in his past, whose inward anger – however much they denied it – reflected in their personality. Their faces were tense, brows furrowed; years of torment, the battles, the curses, and a sense of never belonging twisted their characters into the hated wanderers shunned by common folk. With this one, he felt a connection. This one seemed like the kind of a person who spent his life fighting for everyone, not against them. Even for the misunderstood creatures like vampires; or others, the ones who hid in caves during the day and snuck out to fight for their survival at night in a world they didn’t belong in but didn’t want to disturb with their presence.  
  He wouldn’t have issues persuading this man to turn back. Only a matter of opening his mouth, the deed was as good as done.  
  “Why are you following me?”  
  There was no need to lie to the witcher – he would have caught on, likely sooner than later. Ciaran lowered his hood.  
  “To save you from trouble,” he said. “To save you from the regret of being unable to return to Temeria. I doubt you know what you’re walking into.”  
  “Geralt of Rivia, a witcher,” said the white-haired man, and extended a hand towards Ciaran. “Your concern warms me, yet you’ve no reason to fear. I am able to fend for myself.”  
  “Ciaran O’Cionnaith,” said Ciaran, accepted the handshake, and after a moment of silence added: “A healer.”  
  The ship’s bell rang twice.  
  “Tell me, Master Ciaran, why should I not embark on this ship? What dangers await me in Eysisla?”  
  “Do you not see?” The vampire lifted his gaze towards the ship’s masts, just in time to catch sight of another sailor’s wingspan. “This ship is manned by vampires. The whole of the Eysislan kingdom is full of them. The citizens, the army, the rulers… You’d be guaranteed a swift death upon arrival.”  
  Geralt turned his head to the direction Ciaran was looking, and together they watched the sailors hop between masts as ropes were checked and knots strengthened. Several of the seamen chose to fly, oblivious to the audience.  
  “Doubtful,” the witcher said. “Perhaps you do not know that the witcher blood is toxic to vampires, at times deadly when potions are ingested.”  
  Of course, Ciaran knew. Several books on the subject crowded the shelves at his home, many of them never having time to collect dust. This topic intrigued the old vampire. The premise of altering the chemical composition of blood to the point of toxicity without killing kept Ciaran awake at night on rare occasions when his mind had chosen to focus on witchers as his latest fixation. It was time to come clean.  
  “Forgive me, Master Witcher.” He leaned on the walking stick and sighed. “In my usual haste to prevent the death of any more humans, I thought you’d become a victim, when in fact, it’s the vampires in this case who are likely the subjects of your assault. You’re on your way to complete a contract, if I may assume? Issued, no doubt, by a concerned family member looking for their lost loved one?”  
  “I am not, actually,” said Geralt and scratched his head. “As a matter of fact, I only recently heard of Eysisla. From a faded contract, although... I... it... seemed like an interesting place to visit. Nobody mentioned vampires.”  
  Ciaran hesitated. The centuries-old advertisement burned in his pocket, rearing to be revealed, and so he did – he dug it out, shook off the dried herbs that had settled onto it throughout the years, and handed it to the witcher.  
  “Was this the contract?”  


   _Every day is an adventure!_  
   _Your best life awaits in Eysisla!_  
   _Sail to meet your dreams!_  
   _Infinite possibilities!_  
   _Sufficient resources!_  
   _Landownership!_  
   _Abundance of wealth!_  


  The novelty of lettering on the double-layered parchment captivated Geralt to the point that he did not hear the triple-ring of the ship’s bell. He struggled to read the ancient script, stringing up words from the angular letters, words that invited him and everyone else to take part in the glory that was the Eysislan kingdom. It was disappointing, to say the least.  
  “To be honest,” he said, shoulders slumped, and voice lowered, “I hoped this was a contract. The one I saw was so faded, I could make out no writing, only the coins gave away its origin. You may be right, Master Ciaran. I’ve no business in Eysisla, I do not wish to stay there. I was only looking for work.”  
  “Hey, you, white hair!” The first mate of the ship leaned over the railing. “Weren’t you coming on board? The third bell has rung.”  
  “I think I…” began Geralt and turned away from the gangplank, but Ciaran interrupted. An opportunity presented itself, one he'd only now realized he could take advantage of, one too precious to pass up. Excitement built up in him, the possibility of connection and joy difficult to contain. How had he not thought of this before?  
  “Wait!” The old vampire waved at the first mate. “One moment! Master Geralt,” he then turned to the witcher. “I have a task for you, one that may garner you a contract or two.” He fumbled with his wrist, where a few leather straps held a small round medallion. “Find Mairearad, princess Mairearad, give her this, she will know who it’s from. Tell her…” Ciaran handed the medallion to Geralt. “Tell her I’m still here. Ask her for work. When she hears that I sent you, she’ll be able to employ you, I’m certain. And tell her … Tell her I love her and miss her and hope she could find time to visit.” He smiled.  
  Geralt smiled back, although his was not a smile of remembrance, but one of understanding.  
  “You’re a vampire,” he said under his breath, and Ciaran nodded.  
  “That I am. That I am.”


	5. Chapter 5

  Mai awoke with a start. She squinted, looked around, and tried to remember what day it was. Telling the time proved to be even more difficult, if not pointless. What roused her, mattered not.  
  The room seemed to be in its usual state of chaos. Her robe lay where she had thrown it, and the stack of books from her father’s library still sat by the table leg. Except for the candle having gone out, nothing out of the ordinary caught her eye – not even Heddi lurked in the corner – yet she could not shake the unease of feeling out of place; a sense that she should be wary of some unforeseen calamity. As usual, the window hung open and flakes of snow blew in with the wind. From afar, sounds of hammering could be heard. Crazy fools, banging around after dark… As she tried to get up, groggy and confused, two books slid from her lap.  
  Mai yawned out loud. Her back still hurt; this nap had done nothing to help with the pain. The contrast between the cold floor and the warm sheets made a shiver run up her spine, but the window needed closing first, so she stood with some difficulty. There was tea in the mug on the nightstand. Cold and bitter.  
  She flinched when a knock on the door disturbed her solitude. From the depths of her subconscious, like a bloated body rising from the bottom of a murky pool… Ugh. Such odd imagery, as if from someone else’s nightmare. Yes, yes, there came the realization that this knocking was the cause of her awakening, but it didn’t have to arrive in such a gruesome fashion.  
  A voice accompanied the next knock, insistent and firm.  
  “Mai!” it whispered. “Open up, please!”  
  It was Dorianna, a nurse from the clinic.  
  At this hour? Which hour was it, again? No matter. An agitated nurse meant a medical emergency. Mai sighed with contentment, at once regretting this attitude. Happiness over another’s misfortune only because of boredom? How rude. Nonetheless, the earlier uneasiness vanished; even the back-ache faded into insignificance.  
  “One moment! Coming!” she called and dug under the bed for her shoes. The knocking repeated.  
  “For the sake of Melitele, hurry up!”  
  Damned mess! Mai gave up looking for the slippers and answered the door barefoot.  
  Dorianna looked as if she, too, had been pulled from her sleep, but also as if something illegal was afoot. She seemed poorly put together – hair unkempt, gown thrown on willy-nilly and if Mai had looked closer, she would have noticed the nurse’s mismatched stockings. There was blood on the front of her dress.  
  “Gods, what is going on? Has Lady Kulbert gone into labor early? Are there complications?” Mai no longer cared about footwear, grabbed her satchel, and followed Dorianna down the spiral stairs, her experienced gait taking two steps at a time.  
  “There is an injured man at the clinic,” said the nurse in a hushed voice when they had reached the hallway and could walk side by side.  
  Mai clutched her satchel. “Nature of injuries? Why are you whispering?”  
  “Someone attacked him, that’s why,” said Dorianna.  
  “Oh…” Mai fell silent and kept rushing along. Dorianna tried to explain further, but Mai hushed her to quiet down. “Not here,” she said and threw a few glances around, to catch any sight of vampires in earshot.  
  They nearly ran through the thick snowfall. As if by some miracle, neither of them fell on the ice-covered cobblestones. Visibility worsened by the minute; huge blankets of thick flakes – Mai’s favorite to take walks in – protected them from the eyes and ears of the king’s guards.  
  Dorianna moved closer, and brushed against Mai’s hip when leaning in.  
  “It’s Geralt of Rivia,” she whispered, unable to contain this secret no longer.  
  “Who? What?”  
  “Geralt! The witcher, from Temeria, you know. From the books and stories.”  
  Mai did not know how or what to respond. How could she? This moment - her and Dori walking in the snow, one of them barefoot, towards the clinic to help a witcher - seemed like surreality. And one does not question surreality.  
  Again – silence, as they both fell into the clutches of their respective thoughts. Dorianna, no doubt, recalled the ballads and tales she’d read, or maybe even heard in her younger years living in Novigrad. Perhaps she had snuck into one of Dandelion’s performances, once or twice, and listened to the songs about the valiant witcher and his lovely sorceress, while her young mind wondered what some of the imagery might have meant.  
  Mai’s thought process followed a different template. A witcher’s predominant function was to kill monsters, she knew. The human population considered vampires to be just that – terrible monsters to be eliminated. Could it be that this witcher, a famous one at that, found his way to Eysisla for exactly this purpose? Whom was he after? Who attacked him? And most importantly – why did this attacker spare his life?  
  She did a mental check of the items in the satchel, for every single one of them would doubtless be needed tonight. Ciaran’s heirloom needles hardly ever left the confines of their silk-lined folder, and the vial with the vampire hairs clinked against the case of scalpels as far as she could hear. The bottle of bitters, wrapped into a handkerchief in the bottom of the satchel, would come in handy today; hopefully she had remembered to fill it from the last time. She shuffled alongside Dorianna, and didn’t care about the snow between her toes. A bleeding patient always took precedent.

  The presence of a young mother, as she stood with her son in the waiting room, surprised Mai. The boy clutched the woman’s thigh, terrified of the surroundings and the sight of the princess, while his mother curtsied. His attempted bow made Mai smile; she crouched down to his level.  
  “Dorianna, you mentioned nothing of a child. No need to bow, young man. Are you alright?” As she looked him over, gently easing his fears, it became evident that aside from his fear of authority, there seemed to be no visible signs of injury. Perhaps an acute stomach ache?  
  The nurse had no time to explain. Still clutching his mother’s thigh, the boy looked at Mai with ever-widening eyes, belted ‘The man is very hurt!’, and began to cry.  
  “Lady Undelempe brought the witcher to me,” said Dorianna, now able to stop whispering, since the clinic afforded a freedom to speak without the king’s guards hearing it.  
  “Did the child witness this attack?” asked Mai over the wails of the boy.  
  The mother, struggling to calm him, shook her head.  
  “No, but he did see the–,” she lowered her voice and mouthed “–blood and wounds.”  
  “Dorianna, retrieve two doses of hypericum from the pharmacy,” said Mai, scribbling instructions onto a piece of parchment. “A bunch of lavender, as well, please,” she called after the nurse who already rushed towards the apothecary. Having pressed the parchment into the mother’s palm, Mai stroked the boy’s hair, whispered ‘everything will be alright’, and took off running towards the exam room. Behind her, the nurse, returning with the herbs, began listing instructions, which faded into mumbles as Mai made her way down the hall.  
  “Brew the hypericum into a strong tea – sweeten with honey or sugar – and have your child drink this in small sips after you’ve given him a warm lavender bath. Once you’ve settled him in for the night, leave a pot of steaming water by his bedside with lavender sprigs in it. Do this every night for a week. If the child still shows signs of distress after the treatment, bring…”

  The witcher lay on the examination table, conscious, trembling slightly, but surprisingly calm for someone in his condition. Blood no longer oozed from the wounds on his stomach – the nurse had done an excellent job stabilizing him – but the way he gripped the side of the table with his ashen fingers worried Mai. She twisted her hair into a bun while walking towards a pitcher of water on the table, and fastened the strings of a leather apron behind her back.  
   _“Namulth’ame ep?” _she said, and threw a quick glance at him. No response. Mai scrubbed her hands. No Vampiric, then, just as Dorianna suggested.__  
   _“C’hass saa thearu?” _Nothing. No Eysislan, either. She rinsed just as the nurse returned from dealing with the mother and her child, and dug from the recesses of her memory the long-unused knowledge of Common.__  
  “Do you understand me?”  
  “Yes,” groaned Geralt.  
  Mai walked to his side where the nurse busied herself with removing the rest of the torn fragments of his shirt, and cast a ball of light above him. His skin, now better visible, showed signs of many battles fought, and numerous wounds in various stages of healing. The fresh gashes ran diagonally over the stomach, one of them deep enough to reveal a section of the small intestine.  
  “Three doses, please, Dorianna, and prepare one for ingestion. You seem to be used to these kinds of activities, sir. Level of pain?”  
  “Low,” said the witcher. Still, Mai detected distress in his voice; not due to the physical discomfort but more over the unfamiliar surroundings.  
  “Understood,” she said, and applied a brown substance onto the edges of the wounds. A moment later, Geralt’s hands relaxed, as did his mind.  
  “Right,” said Mai. “You’ll be able to tell me what happened, now that these wounds no longer bother you as much.” She applied the antiseptic with a clean cloth. “Who attacked you?” Conjuring a reassuring smile on her face, she turned to catch the man’s gaze and nearly jumped.  
  The eyes of a genuine witcher surprised her more than she thought they would. Their cat-like pupils and yellow irises met her with a calm she did not expect from someone laying on an examination table with their entrails in danger of falling out. It dawned on her – as suddenly as she had heard of him – that this man could help fulfill her biggest wish, and as her mind grappled with the magnitude of this discovery, she had to force her body to go through the motions of the procedure.  
  “You really are a witcher,” she whispered, simultaneously unnerved and elated, as the identity of the attacker no longer mattered. The need to broach a new subject in their conversation, to take his attention away from the pain and the blood, took priority, but Mai could simply not find another word to say. Her fingers began working faster, just as her heart rate hastened, and she noticed his state alter as he sensed these changes in her. Like a dance, she found them exchanging bits of emotions here and there. She calmed his worry, he replaced it with confusion. The witcher became anxious, Mai offered respite in the form of an emptied mind. There was depth in the inward emotions of this man, who, clearly unable to display any of them, seemed to enjoy finally being understood. She smiled at this connection.  
  Stitch after stitch knotted onto the witcher’s stomach, and soon the long strand of black silken hair vanished into his muscles, where it would fuse the tissues and eventually disappear.  
  As her hands continued working, Mai’s mind began to wander along the roads she’d memorized from her father’s maps. It walked from Nilfgaard to Kaedwen and back; to Caingorn, and into the mountains to the north. It imagined the endless summers of the south, the flowers by the road, the bubbling rivers and distant mountain peaks. Also, the war-ravaged lands, the terror and stench of death and destruction; the beasts, the people… In her mind’s eye, she walked these roads alongside the white-haired witcher, unharmed, with not a care in the world, as he used his powers to find the… No, no, not that way. Let’s go north, away from Nilfgaard, let’s go where the snow falls just like at home, let’s find the temple, let’s…  
  The nurse’s soft nudge, as she tried to take the used cloth from Mai’s hand, awakened her from this elaborate daydream; she stopped swabbing the witcher’s skin and put the medicine-soaked rag back onto the tray. Concentrate!  
  “Right. Half a dose for ingestion, instead. Prepare a needle, please.”  
  “Sinew or hair?”  
  “Hair. So yes, someone attacked you?” Mai tried to appear calm, asking the question matter-of-factly, but knew the witcher understood her unease.  
  “Not someone. Something,” said Geralt. “An undead. Not an apparition or a wraith, I would have…”  
  Mai interrupted. “We do not have undead abominations running around, attacking visitors. To me, this looks like a cut made by a vampire. Very clean edges, I did not need to excise. Sir witcher, there’s no need for you to protect your attacker’s identity. Whoever it was will need to answer for their crime. We do not allow such violence in Eysisla. Or maybe… Did you come here to kill one of our own?”  
  “Wasn't a vampire, I should know,” said the witcher, and stared at the ceiling. “It was a dead woman. I did not come here to kill anyone.”  
  Dorianna gasped. Mai raised her eyebrows and held back a scoff.  
  “A dead woman, and she attacked you? Whereabouts did you meet such a creature?” The witcher’s entrails no longer visible, Mai asked the nurse to prepare another needle, this time with sinew.  
  “In the well.”  
  “The Wailing Well?” Dorianna raised her eyes from the tray of instruments.  
  The witcher grunted in frustration. “How should I know? Just a well, near the town square at the crossroads of a few streets." - Dorianna nodded and gave Mai a knowing look - "I happened there by chance, when a woman tried to throw her son’s toy in it. I intervened. Didn’t understand the significance of it all, her common left a lot to be desired.” He grunted as the needle entered his flesh one more time. The anesthetic, meant for use on humans, wore off quicker on a witcher.  
  The nurse offered a medicated cloth without having been asked.  
  “It’s called the Wailing Well, sir witcher,” she said. “During every full moon the cries of a newborn babe can be heard from it, unless a toy is tossed into the well to calm the child.” Dorianna laughed, albeit nervously. “The learned ones say it’s just the wind blowing in the old caverns under the well, that the howling doesn't always happen during the full moon either, but I think it's true. I think something horrible and sinister happened hundreds of years ago and there’s a soul now captured in the deepest bottoms of those caves.”  
  The witcher didn’t respond. Mai noticed his mind darkening, horrific images taking their hold on his thoughts, things she realized even he was not used to seeing, and she rushed to bring a reprieve into the moment.  
  “As much as I would like to hear this story as soon as possible,” she said, applying the medicines to the nearly finished stitches, “I think sir witcher needs to get some rest first. Have you arranged for accommodations in town?”  
  “Haven’t had a chance,” he said through gritted teeth, which relaxed as the medicine took effect once more. “Went straight from the harbor to…”  
  Mai did not let him finish. She knotted the last suture and accepted a bandage roll from Dorianna.  
  “Heddi!” she called. “I know you’re here, no need to keep hiding.”  
  The young vampire materialized in a dark corner. He sulked closer and looked at the witcher with utmost contempt, as if the Temerian had absconded with his most prized possession. Heddi’s long hair hung down to his waist and shone in the candlelight like silk.  
  “Yes, Mai,” he said. “I was here the whole time.” The stark contrast between his appearance and his childish voice still perplexed all who saw and heard him.  
  “Heddi, this is…” she began and smiled at the witcher. “I am sorry. In the rush to repair you, I forgot to introduce myself, and here we are, chatting away as if old friends. I am Mairearad of Raeval. You, as I have been told, are Geralt of Rivia, the famous witcher from Temeria.”  
  Geralt raised his head in recognition, one that Mai did not understand.  
  “You’re Mairearad, princess Mairearad?”  
  “Yes.” She looked at him in confusion. “Surely you haven’t heard of me in Temeria?”  
  “I had not, Your Highness, until a man approached me as I was about to board the ship to sail here. Asked me to find you, and give you a medallion… One I, unfortunately, lost in the well.”  
  “Who was it?” Mai chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone in Tem…” She fell silent. Surely it couldn’t have been… No, impossible. As she heard her mouth utter the question ‘was it a vampire?’, her body went numb in anticipation of his answer, and she dropped the bandage-roll.  
  “Yes, a vampire,” began Geralt, and Mai staggered.  
  “Mai!” Dorianna rushed to her, pulled the princess away from the table and pushed her onto a chair. Heddi misted by her side, knelt on the floor and clutched her arm.  
  "Did he hurt you? Did he?" he whispered, as his face contorted in worry.  
  Mai shushed him. "I'm fine," she said, her voice croaking.  
  Geralt attempted to rise into a sitting position. “Are you alright, madam? This vampire… He is not trying to hurt you, is he? Seemed amiable. Asked me to tell you he misses you and loves you, and wishes you could visit.”  
  Mai fought with a clump in her throat. Should I give in? she thought, fighting to hold onto her consciousness. Should I let go and faint? I’ve already made a fool out of myself by staggering around, and Heddi would catch me. I’ve no feeling in my extremities. Might as well go all out.  
  Yet, part of her wished to hear more.  
  “Where…” she managed to say  
  "In Skellige, Kaer Trolde to be exact,” said Geralt. “A peculiar looking man, did not think him a vampire at first. Said his name was Ceran, Ciaran… Something like that.”  
  Mai squeezed Dorianna’s hand which had come to rest on her shoulder for support, and exhaled. As she grappled with the simultaneous gain and loss of hope, the absurdity of it all crashed over her in waves, and it became difficult to sound indifferent. She managed it anyway. “That’s my teacher,” she said. “He knows I haven’t been able to visit. Or maybe he doesn’t, it’s been so long. And here I thought… Never mind.”  
  “Apologies for upsetting you.” The witcher managed to slide himself off the table and refused Dorianna’s aid. “I never thought royalty such as yourself would have any reason for fear.”  
  “Fear has nothing to do with it,” said Mai. She got up from the chair, walked over and stood face to face with this newcomer to her world, whose long white beard and hair reminded her more of the old merchants in town, rather than a seasoned monster-killer. “I live in the protective clutches of my father. No threat can enter the keep.”  
  “And yet, here I am,” said the witcher. “A vampire killer. Feared by monsters, shunned by citizens and villagers all over. Am I not a threat to you?”  
  She chuckled. “For a moment, you nearly did kill me of cardiac arrest.”  
  The witcher attempted to bow, clumsily. The stitches in his stomach let themselves be known, and Mai picked up on his momentary break in calm.  
  “Come now,” she said, and grabbed Geralt under the arm. “Let’s find you some clothes, a bed to sleep in and some food. What do you say to that?”  
  “Yes, Your Highness.”  
  “Geralt.” Mai leaned closer. “There’s no need for you to call me that if my father’s not present. My name is Mai.” She patted his arm. “Let’s get you taken care of now, shall we? Heddi?”  
  “Yes, Mai. I am waiting patiently.”  
  “Very good, and thank you. Please, would you fetch the witcher some clothing? Also, have Loede meet us by the clinic entry, will you?”  
  The vampire hesitated, flipped his hair out of his face and responded to Mai while staring the witcher down.  
  “Which clothes should I bring? One of your winter coats? That will not fit, I don’t think.”  
  “Go to the attic room. In the small closet, the one in the back corner by the bed… Get the black coat and bring it. And the gray pants and one of the shirts. Oh, boots as well. I believe they will fit.”  
  Heddi raised his eyebrows. “Shartan’s clothes? You won’t even let me wear them, and now a stranger?”  
  “Heddi… Do as I ask. Now go!” The way her fingers fluttered towards him brought back memories of her mother, and Mai clutched her hand into a fist.  
  Heddi grumbled but set on his way. “Many problems, many problems. Which black coat?”  
  “The long one. The one lined with wool.”  
  “Can I wear the short one?”  
  Mai stared at him. “Fine.”  
  Heddi let out a small yelp and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "I..." he began, and corrected himself. "I'm glad you feel good."

____

____

  She maintained her composure after the witcher had donned the clothes Heddi brought. When he met with Loede at the door, introduced himself, and was lead away, she watched him leave, the coattails waving as he walked – and still kept her cool. His unfamiliar gait, white hair and the way he carried himself helped Mai forget the one who had worn these clothes last.  
  Dorianna hurried alongside the tall witcher, snow crunching under their feet. The two Temerians followed the castellan, chatting amongst themselves about whatever Temerians chat about. The cities they both knew, the people, the events. Mutual friends, maybe? Mai leaned against the clinic door, her bare feet standing on the one clear patch of landing that was not yet covered with snow, and watched as the witcher offered the nurse his arm to lean on. Watched as she slipped her hand around the witcher’s elbow, remembered what it felt like to touch that jacket… Perhaps it was a mistake to allow him to wear these clothes. The memories she’d hidden away even from herself came back to grab her by the throat to strangle her, to sit on her shoulders and push her to the ground, to dunk her into a pool of self-pity so deep, she gasped for air. Mai jumped back into the clinic and slammed the door behind her. With nobody around to judge her, she slumped into the corner and dug the bottle of bitters out from the satchel. 

 ...

  “Enter,” bellowed the king.  
  Mai slipped in through the door, hurried to the fire and sat on the floor in front of it, without saying a word. Her hair dripped from melted snow, the bottom of her skirt just as wet, leaving drag marks on the floor.  
  Andrues pretended to not notice his daughter’s red eyes, or the way she had tried to wash her face with snow to cool it. He did rise from his armchair, did throw her a blanket, and did poke the fire, wherein three heavy logs crackled and hissed, the flames pulled by the force of the chimney, but remained quiet in doing so.  
  “Are we not wealthy enough for shoes, child?” he said, after his armchair once again creaked with his weight.  
  She chose not to respond, staring into the fire at first, as if making a stubborn point. The king chose to ignore this behavior, offering instead a grunt of acceptance for whatever mood she brought with her this time.  
  Finally, the princess spoke, and although he knew it all already, Andrues listened patiently and did not interrupt.  
  “A witcher has come,” she said slowly, picking at the fringe on the edge of the blanket. “Just as you promised, father. Will you now fulfill the rest of your promise? Without bringing any more excuses into this, any more obstacles?”  
  “Will you?” came his response.  
  “I am ready,” she said, her voice that of one who has been defeated.  
  Away from her sight, and glad of it, Andrues lifted his eyes towards the ceiling as if a religious man, and clenched his jaw. Leaving his emotions unstirred, the towering vampire gripped the armrests of his chair so hard, pieces of wood crumbled to the floor from between his fingers.  
  He then came over to stroke her hair, said ‘Good girl’, and for that, garnered a forceful recoil from his daughter, along with a scoff worthy of the worst faux pas.  
  “Father!” she said with disgust in her voice. “Especially in this context – please, do not say such things!”  
  And the king winced in understanding.  
  He brought a sheepskin, soft and thick, to drape Mai’s shoulders with it, and chose this to be his only apology, for to admit his error in words would have given his pride a bigger blow than any weapon.  
  Closer to the morning, when the witcher and the nurse were done eating their late-night meal peppered with stories of Temeria, Mai fell asleep in front of the fireplace in her father’s bedroom. The king carried her to his bed, sat in the armchair and stared at the air in front of his face until the sun came up.  
  Not long now, he thought. I’ve waited enough.

…

  Geralt sat at the table, opposite a towering, red-haired vampire. He’d slept for a day and a half in the luxurious guest room; had been treated to the sauna and provided with the services of a barber. The outfit he’d been given – this very same black coat and grey pants that so had stirred the senses of the young, intellectually underdeveloped vampire – caressed his skin like the softest cambric and fit as if tailored for him.  
  He took another bite of venison roast, chewed it slowly, savored its soft texture and perfect seasonings, washed the meal down with a sip of wine and laid his hands on the table. It took a bit of mental fortitude to appear unmoved by the presence of a vampire elder.  
  “Have your accommodations been to your liking?” The king lifted a goblet to his lips, and by the smell, Geralt did not wish to even imagine the taste of his cocktail.  
  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “I am very grateful for your hospitality.”  
  The king took another sip of his gruesome drink and stretched his legs towards the hearth, wherein an angry fire was busy devouring what seemed to be an entire tree.  
  “Then, straight to the point,” he said. “My daughter has requested I let you accompany her to Temeria on a journey.” His deep voice rattled the dishes on the table. “I have decided to allow it.”  
  Geralt did not know how to respond. It seemed an easy decision for the king to make, for his demeanor reflected nothing but abandon, but Andrues disproved this sentiment moments later.  
  “The amount of trust I am putting into you should not be scoffed at,” continued the king. “But you’re here and she’s endured this wait patiently. I am using the opportunity to fulfill my promise, yet in doing so, my heart pounds as if facing an enemy. Put my mind at ease, witcher, and tell me my trust is not in vain.”  
  “Why would you not trust me?” Geralt took another sip of the blackcurrant wine.  
  The king laughed. “I know of witchers, of their demeanor, their… ways with women. The nature of my trust lies solely in allowing you near Mairearad.” He then walked over to the fire and stared at it. “The mission itself is simple. In Temeria lies a grave. Follow my daughter to that grave. Afterwards, return with her, and I shall pay you any sum you name.”  
  “A tracking mission?” Geralt poured himself more wine, draining the bottle. The king reached into a wooden crate behind his chair and pulled out another pitcher. It uncorked with a satisfying plop.  
  “Same vintage,” he said. “And no, for you, this is not a tracking mission. Your job is simply to be present. A general of mine knows the location of this grave, and will accompany you.”  
  Geralt sank deeper into his chair, his head and body warm from the alcohol, the meal, and the fire.  
  “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but… If your general knows the location of said grave, why does Her Highness need a witcher? She could simply have this general...”  
  Something stirred in the corner, and both the witcher and the king picked up on this movement. Andrues grew serious.  
  “Heddi!” he yelled. The young vampire Geralt had met at the clinic materialized in a dark corner; this time he grinned, as if found out.  
  “Get out!”  
  “Apologies, Your Majesty!”  
  “You’d be dead, Heddi, if Mairearad didn’t like you so much! Quit your fucking snooping! And if I sense you in here again, I swear I’ll have you draining the outhouse!”  
  Heddi slinked out of the dining hall, leaving behind a strong smell of lily-of-the-valley.  
  The king rubbed his forehead and returned to his seat at the table. Then he sighed. “What makes you think I wanted her going anywhere?" he said. "Mairearad does not need a witcher to leave the keep. She needs my permission, which, in a moment of foolishness, I vowed to give only if a witcher arrived. I made an agreement with her that a witcher would be the only one allowed to escort her, thinking it would never happen. The notices I posted used deliberately vague language. You were never supposed to show up, do you understand? Alas, against my wishes, you have, and I will give this permission, for I keep my word. Perhaps fate willed you to arrive, and so be it. But know this – if anything were to happen, were she to become hurt, entangled in some conspiracy, or defiled by you, not a wet mark will remain where you stand.” The king threw an all-knowing glance at the witcher.  
  Geralt remained silent and stared at his wine goblet.  
  "My general will do all the protecting she needs. And keep an eye on you, as well.” The king paused in his path and drilled Geralt with his black eyes.  
  “Understood,” said the witcher.  
  “Have you spoken to her yet?” the king then said, his voice calmer.  
  “I have not. I was to rest first.”  
  “Very well. Discuss the matter with my general, after which you can speak with Mairearad and be on your way.”  
  The king opened his mouth a bit too wide for Geralt’s comfort, baring a jaw full of fangs, some of them thicker than the witcher’s thumb. Then he screeched; an eerie sonic call that bounced off the dining room walls and made the thick stained-glass windows shake. Surprisingly, this sound left the witcher’s ears unscathed, unlike the similar cries of an angered bruxa would have. Instead, it summoned a man whose cheerful disposition immediately filled the hall as he entered, a smile on his face.  
  His small stature and wavy blond hair brought to Geralt's mind a cupid from one of Yennefer's illustrated books. The assassin sported a simple jerkin of bright orange color, and his trousers hung loosely around his thin hips. His pot-belly clashed with his wiry extremities in the most scarecrow-like fashion.  
  “Lech,” he said, and approached the witcher with a bounce in his step, hand extended. “His Majesty’s assassin. I kill ‘em, you grill ‘em, right?” He laughed. Geralt felt an immediate detest towards this contradictory character. His familiar name took over an entirely different category in the wither's mind.  
  He pushed his chair away from the table, stood, and accepted the handshake.  
  “Geralt of Rivia. A pleasure,” he lied. “Lech, you said? I believe I’ve heard of you.”  
  “Is that so?” The man shook the witchers hand with both of his. “I hope only terrible things.” His subsequent laughter bared a mouth full of needle-sharp fangs which clashed with his personality on another unexpected level.  
  “Absolutely,” said Geralt. “Just a month or so ago I met a bruxa who was so terrified of you she couldn’t stop peeling potatoes.” He laughed in an attempt to mock Lech, who fell quiet in response.  
  An uneasy silence overtook the dining hall. The assassin’s eyes shot from the king to the witcher and he took a timid step backward.  
  The king stirred.  
  “Let me hear that again,” he said, his bellowing voice somber and ominous. “Repeat yourself, witcher. A bruxa? One who peeled potatoes? One who was sent to death for betraying her queen?”  
  The assassin’s shoulders rose towards his pointy ears as his back curved into a cower. The king stood, once again allowing Geralt to marvel at his imposing height.  
  “Am I to understand that you disobeyed my direct order, Lech?” Gradually his voice loudened until he felt the need to add to its threatening effect by slamming his fist onto the table. “I remember that night! The night my mate perished! I remember that sniveling bitch of a bruxa, and I remember sending you to Temeria with her, where your orders were to kill her! And now a witcher tells me he spoke with her? That she mentioned your name? Is this true? Did you allow her to live?”  
  The assassin did not respond, choosing instead to slump further into his cower. This made Andrues even more furious.  
  “I take your silence as agreement,” he hissed. “Tell me this, and I expect an audible answer this time – was she the only one you let live, or are there others? How many murderers and criminals run around Temeria today because of your incompetence and inability to follow orders? Whom else have you let live?”  
  “No, Your Majesty,” said Lech, his voice a shell of its former cheerful self. “Nobody, nobody, I swear.”  
  “I’ve a feeling you are lying. But I will give you one more chance. Where did you bury the Skelligean charlatan?” The king scowled.  
  “In… in Nilfgaard, Your Majesty. I took him far, as you ordered, and his grave lies in Nilfgaard.”  
  “Where in Nilfgaard?”  
  “Near… near… I don’t remember exactly the name of the town. It’s been so long.” His voice shook.  
  “Near Blaviken?” offered Geralt, and crossed his arms.  
  Lech’s gaze shot from the king to the witcher and back.  
  “Yes, yes, that was it,” he said triumphantly. “Blaviken. Just south of Blaviken.”  
  Geralt stepped back. “Blaviken is in...” he began.  
  Andrues finished the sentence for him. "In Redania. Your map is upside down, Lech."  
  "No, no, I made a mistake, it wasn’t Blaviken, it was…”  
  Too late. The witcher’s impeccable instinct allowed him to jump out of the way as the king crashed into his assassin, grabbed the man by the throat and growled.  
  “For you, I will break my rule!” With these words, Andrues plunged his fangs deep into Lech’s neck, ripping muscle, veins, and bones. Geralt caught a glimpse of the assassins desperate eyes a moment before the light within was extinguished. Then the man slumped to the floor, colorless, bloodless, neckless. Shaking with anger, the king threw the empty husk of a corpse into the fireplace, where it burst into flames.  
  “It seems our plans have abruptly changed,” he said, turning to the witcher, his face dripping with his officer’s blood. “You will have to do some tracking, after all.” As his fangs receded, the king smacked his lips and licked the blood on them, a gruesome display which Geralt found too shocking to be a display of threat.  
  “Are you afeared of me?" Andrues straightened his coat and wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "Do not worry, master witcher, I will find another to accompany you. Someone I can trust to be loyal.”  
  "No," said Geralt. "For I have not angered you."  
  "Yet." The king grinned.

 

 

  


	6. Chapter 6

  The castellan reached into his pocket and drew out what looked to Geralt to be a root. He began chewing it as they walked, his jaws working on the smelly stick with some difficulty, while the elf rounded corners and blew through doorways. For an old man, he walked very fast.  
  They did not speak. This seemed to Geralt to be the best course of action. Words were not needed, for the castellan’s only current function – to serve as a guide – required no conversational skills. The commentary over Geralt’s injuries and the questions about his profession could now all be avoided, and this brought welcome calm to the witcher’s thoughts. His mind ached from trying to understand both Vampiric and Eysislan, anyway. Every time he passed servants or maids at the keep, they began to whisper amongst themselves, and it pained him to be left out of the conversation.  
  He kept pace with Loede, despite the pain in his stomach muscles. Although it was likely the elf not only knew of the wounds but also what caused them, Geralt thought it best to not give the castellan any reason to speak of it. The man seemed untrustworthy.  
  In fact, he appeared wholly out of place. He looked more like a wizard who had lost the key to his tower, than the castellan of a vampiric court. Loede gnawed on the root and hummed quietly under his breath, while the hem of his blue robe kicked up dust from the floor. Ascending stairs with the youthful bravado of a college student, he finally stopped at the start of a narrow, winding staircase, and it was there that he uttered his first words.  
  “I find your disdain towards elves to be a bit… troubling,” he said. “But rest assured, your mind is a most amusing place to get lost in. Thank you for this opportunity. I must say, my knowledge of a witcher’s mindset must be somewhat skewed. I was under the impression that your kind possesses an endless supply of libido and the thoughts that accompany such a drive. Most disappointing, in that regard. Are you impotent?”  
  The audacity of this question wasn’t the main reason for the look of shock on Geralt’s face. The fact that this man could so grossly misinterpret his thoughts took precedence, and the witcher almost felt accused of a crime. As ignoble of a practice as mind-reading is, it should be done correctly if at all, he thought.  
  Geralt withdrew, the clumps of betrayal and disgust knocking around against each other in the pits of his stomach.  
  “I take your silence as agreement,” said the castellan. “Excellent to know Her Highness can feel safe in your company.” He swallowed the last piece of root and licked his fingers. “She awaits up these stairs. As I gathered from your thoughts, you are familiar with court protocol, yet opt for a more… how should I put it…of an informal approach to greeting royalty, regardless of what is expected.” He pulled another root from his pocket and offered it to the witcher. “Licorice?”  
  Geralt shook his head, the only reaction he could muster in the presence of this vile individual.  
  “No worries, witcher,” said the castellan as he turned to leave. “Lady Mairearad is rather mannerless, herself.”

  The attic chamber smelled of sage. The neatness of this space, with its bookshelves, potion bottles, and dried herbs, stayed Geralt’s step for a moment, as he feared to disturb the delicate order with his mere presence.  
  Mai leaned against the table when he entered, and fiddled with her hair. A satchel, packed and buckled, lay by the table leg.  
  “Take off the coat and shirt,” she said.  
  The witcher stopped, confused, remembering for a moment the quip from the castellan. A quick glance around the room revealed nothing he could read as an invitation to enjoy a romantic evening by the candlelight while frolicking around in the nude. The impeccably clean space, filled with all manner of medical paraphernalia, revealed in its interior no intent to incite an interlude. An old striped blanket covered the bed, in front of which lay an equally worn rug, the latter as uninviting as the former. Both items, hurriedly adjusted and straightened, belonged in the house of a peasant instead of the princess’s bedroom, as did the moth-eaten cloth that covered a painting at the foot of the bunk. Geralt avoided stepping on the rug. It looked older than Vesemir.  
  Mai cleared her throat.  
  “If you would, please?” she said, and only now did Geralt remember that this slender woman, who wore her waist length hair loose over a blue travel outfit, had been the one to stitch him up at the clinic. He complied, unlaced the shirt, and laid it on the bed along with the borrowed coat.  
  She crouched in front of him, scrutinizing the wounds and occasionally daubing the puncture wound of a stitch with a potion-soaked piece of cambric.  
  "Remarkable,” she then said, rising, and tossed the used cloth into a jar. “If I didn’t know who you were, I’d feel quite proud of my work, but the speed at which these wounds have healed can no doubt be attributed to your witcher abilities. Now, before we leave… Would you be willing to sit with me for a while and tell me in lurid detail about your encounter with the dead woman? I’ve been waiting to hear it, mostly with patience. My mind insists you’re not telling the truth, but my intuition believes otherwise.”  
  She returned the shirt to him before sitting. Geralt noticed how her thumb spent a few moments feeling the fabric as she clutched it but realized soon she’d wanted him not to. With the look of anticipation like that of a child perched on its parent’s lap with a new storybook, she beckoned Geralt to begin the tale.  
  “Please, do not spare any details,” she said. “Precious little happens here, and I yearn for stories, especially ones such as this.”  
  And Geralt obliged.

  ***

  The noise of the city square quickly drove him away, despite the pleasant music and delicious smells that wafted from the food tents. The streets, branching out in every direction, confused him, and the citizens gave him only vague directions towards the castle. Soon, Geralt ended up in a quiet plaza, away from the bustle, yet confident that this was not the correct way. He turned around too abruptly in his frustration to find the keep before sundown, and at that moment, a small boy ran into him, screaming at the top of his lungs.  
  The impact knocked the child over, but more painful than his fall onto the cobblestones, was the loss of the toy he carried – a small wagon, it’s wheels and axels now scattered all over the street, lost between the stones and stuck in crevices. This made him scream even louder.  
  It soon became clear that the child had not run for joy or mischief. A woman, chasing down the street after the boy, came barreling towards them, her skirts held high and her voice higher. She berated the child with words Geralt did not understand, but with gestures that held similar meanings in any language. Pointing towards the well, she shook her head at the witcher, all the while searching for the parts of the wagon.  
  Geralt’s excuses fell on deaf ears, and his attempts at helping to pick up the pieces of the toy went unaccepted. Faster than any one of them, the woman gathered the delicate wooden parts from the street, marched to the well in the middle of the square, and tossed the pieces into it. Wiped her hands afterward, as well, with a look of accomplishment on her face.  
  The boy did not relent. He grabbed the nearest person he believed helpful – the man with two swords – and, while pulling Geralt towards the well, gestured helplessly towards its opening. His pleas remained misunderstood to all, muffled to blubbering by his cries.

  “She threw the broken toy in the well?” Mai raised an eyebrow. “What sense did that make? It goes against the myth. Only blocks and balls supposedly quiet the crying. I bet these wagon pieces made the baby angry!” She threw her head back and laughed. Geralt noticed her teeth – straight, normal, unlike the teeth of any vampire he’d ever met. “I assume she managed to explain the story to you?”  
  “Not really,” said Geralt, his mind lingering on the disturbing images he had seen in the well. “But her flawed common made some sense after a while and she piqued my interest. To keep the ghost from crying so she could sleep? An offer of coin? I agreed to look into it.”

  He lowered into the well with the help of a worn rope the woman found from the depths of her house. She held it wrapped tightly around her arms, afraid to drop him even before he entered the opening, and eased him down slowly. For every few feet, her ‘now, yes?’ came from above, and each time Geralt responded with a ‘no!’, until there was no more rope left, he fell backward onto a ledge and stopped hearing her voice.  
  Aside from the dripping of water – a sound so typical to old, unused wells – the witcher was now surrounded by the silence and calm of an environment he was all too familiar with. 

  “Must have been very nice…” mumbled Mai to herself.  
  “It was, for a moment,” said Geralt.  
  She smiled.  
  He didn’t.

  The caverns extended deeper under the well than Geralt expected. The original pool of water long since dried out, it had in the process exposed the ledges onto which he now lowered himself. A few of the remnants of the little boy’s wagon lay in the dust by his feet.  
  The sunlight did not reach far. Geralt felt as if entering the belly of a giant, burrowing deeper into its stomach to be ingested, and the effort he put forth to focus on the entities possibly living here made him nearly miss the moment his medallion began to vibrate.  
  It was at first only a quiet vibration, more like the buzzing of a young bee, gentle and inexperienced. But as the witcher reached the bottom of the well, where the only vision he had was that of the artificially conjured sight from the Cat potion, the vibration took on an entirely different level of urgency.

  “I didn’t see her at first,” said Geralt pensively. “Was too focused on searching for the remains of a child, the one whose spirit still haunted the well.” His shoulders slumped, and he tried to lean forward to rest his elbows on his knees, only to realize the wounds did not allow this pose. “That is what I thought the medallion vibrated for. In fact, I saw something on the bottom of the pool when I finally reached it.”  
  “You saw something?” Mai studied him with curiosity. “In a dark cave, in the depths of what is likely the murkiest body of water in a hundred-kilometer radius? I understand you’re a witcher, have read of your feats, but that ability I’ve never been able to wrap my mind around.”  
  “I sense it,” the witcher said, and the look he gave Mai with his cat-like eyes sent tickles up her spine. “In a way similar to you sensing feelings.”  
  “You noticed.” She gave a small smile but lowered her gaze as if in embarrassment. “Can you pick up on emotions, as well? My apologies if this offends you, but I know you hold many, even without the ability to display them.”  
  “Not like you do,” said Geralt. “But I can read outward signs. And you don’t need to apologize to me. Not for an ability you have no power over.”  
  Mai stood and walked over to the bookcase. Her hands searched for something to hold on to, to fiddle with while she paced, and she took an empty potion vial. Measuring the length of the rug with her feet, she walked from one end of the room to the other and back.  
  “In a way, I do have an ability to control it. I cannot block the emotions that surround me, but I can take them in their entirety, clear your mind, so to speak. It comes in handy with patients who are scared, children especially. The kind of fear a child experiences before a procedure is usually only due to the unknown. I take that fear from them, and knowing what is about to happen, can process it, melt it near instantly.  
  “Other feelings can be a trifle toilsome to handle. Hatred, for instance, if it’s directed towards me. And then there are the uninvited feelings in a crowd, or a dining room full of guests, all with problems of their own. Those environments I would rather stay away from, it becomes almost impossible to breathe. But I digress, you were telling me about the dead woman and the child. I…” She gripped the potion vial and sat on the edge of the bed. “I cannot believe there’s the body of a… baby. In the well. And all these years I’ve laughed at this story, thinking it to be nothing but a tale to frighten children.”  
  “I was about to dive into the pool to retrieve the remains,” said Geralt, his voice suddenly dark and ominous, and Mai felt his mood blacken. They both slumped in their seats – Geralt from what he was about to reveal and Mai from the anticipation of it. “That’s when she attacked me.”  
  “The dead woman?”  
  “Yes.”  
  “Gods…” Mai’s voice turned to a terrified whisper. “To think that the well has turned into a dumping ground for murderers’ handiwork.”  
  “I thought she was you,” said Geralt, adding to the absurdity of the story.  
  The flash of Mai’s nervous laughter did nothing to lighten their mood.  
  “What? Why would you think that?”  
  “Ciaran and his medallion. In my line of work, objects like that are often used to quell the anger of a wraith, and when she attacked me… The correlations my mind formed were ones only a witcher can come up with. And then, when I called her by your name, the fury that boiled over in her… It was unparalleled. She nearly killed me.”  
  Mai rubbed her temples.  
  “We need to go,” she said. “I cannot stay in this room any longer. Too many emotions piled on top of each other.” She grabbed the satchel from the floor, a simple brown bag with a flap closure, which looked to Geralt to be a bit heavy for its size.  
  “We will collect Lech on our way out,” she said, patted her pockets, and looked around the room as if forgetting something.  
  “Doubtful he will join us,” offered Geralt. “Your father killed Lech a few hours ago, while we chatted in his study.”  
  “What are you speaking about? Killed? For what reason?” She said these words, but to Geralt, it seemed her mouth moved on its own, for her mind looked to be in another world altogether. The initial smile that lit up her face quickly vanished as she forced herself to cough, attempting to mask the apparent joy.  
  “For failing to follow–” he began, but Mai didn’t listen.  
  "That’s…” Her eyes darted around the room. “I suppose it’s just you and me then.” She chuckled, then grimaced apologetically. “Wait here. I may yet be able to talk some sense into my father, under these circumstances.” With that, she hurried out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her. 

  Geralt sat for a while without moving and listened to the sounds around him. From the open window, he heard an occasional snippet of conversation from the courtyard, the sounds of cooking from the kitchens far below, the laughter of the laundry maids. The attic chamber itself breathed silence, but from time to time, the bunches of dried herbs would brush against each other when a breeze found its way high up the castle walls, and this rustling reminded Geralt of the forests back home.  
  The moth-eaten cloth that hung over the painting billowed in the next breeze. The lower corner of it became unattached, grabbed hold of the wind, and ballooned to rise away from the image. Then it clapped back against the canvas as the wind settled, rose again, and fluttered a few times. In that movement, Geralt’s eye caught a glimpse of something familiar. He walked over, more to tuck the corner back to its place, but also to allow his interest to take a nibble.  
  The young man, whose image stared back at the witcher, looked contorted with annoyance. He had long hair, much like Heddi’s, and a fresh face, to which his tired eyes were very much in contrast. Around his neck, hidden partially under the lapels of his coat, hung a Skelligean silver dollar – like the one Ciaran had asked Geralt to deliver.  
  “That’s Shartan,” said a quiet voice from the corner. “And you’re not supposed to look.” Heddi materialized in front of Geralt, unbothered by the fact that the witcher didn’t find his sudden appearance shocking.  
  “Only Mai can look,” he said, to confirm his statement.  
  “Why?”  
  Heddi seemed uncomfortable. He tucked the cloth back behind the painting and made sure it would not come loose in the wind again.  
  “He was her friend.” Heddi said each word with care.  
  Geralt took a better look at the young vampire, whose silken hair shimmered in the moonlight. His thin frame made him look taller than he already was, and his gentle movements added to the delicate nature of his being, but the nearly elven features of this lanky youth would have made even Francesca Findabair blush. Heddi’s black eyes stared at Geralt suspiciously, measuring the witcher from head to toe, but that gaze struggled. Behind those dark eyes and the beautiful face was the tension of an effort, a need. For what, the witcher could not yet tell.  
  “Heddi, right?”  
  “Yes. Heddi. It’s Heddi.” The vampire turned his eyes.  
  “Is Shartan your friend, also?”  
  “No, no, only Mai. Not my friend. Was. You said is. Was.” Heddi shook his head and blushed, staring awkwardly anywhere but at Geralt.  
  “But you look at the picture, Heddi, don’t you?”  
  This question made the vampire stare the witcher in the eye. He did so intently, piercingly, and with the kind of passion one could label as hatred.  
  “He’s dead!” said Heddi, and laughed, a high-pitched laugh that lasted for only one second, but showed him in a different light altogether. He caught himself after it, his body jerked, and his face stretched into the horrible realization of what he’d done.  
  “Don’t tell Mai!” he gasped, and turned into black mist. Slinking along the floor, the fog brushed by Geralt’s boots and oozed onto the windowsill. Then he dispersed into the air and vanished. 

  Mai returned a few hours later, after Geralt had leafed through some of her books, almost dropped one of the potion bottles, and admired the detailed anatomical drawings pinned to the walls.  
  “Father said he will not hinder our departure,” she said with a pleasant, calm voice. “Nor will we require to be escorted. And that, to me, is the best part! Come. I do not wish to waste any more time.”  
  She closed the window, tossed Geralt the black coat, and left the room, this time leaving the door open as a sign for him to follow. He did, descending the precarious steps as gracefully as only a witcher could. In front of him, Mai hurried along the corridors.  
  “Wait,” he said when he finally caught up with her. “Don’t you wish to hear the rest of the story?”  
  She pulled him by the arm instead of answering, and they entered the courtyard, passed under the portcullis, and stopped in a quiet corner where a few side buildings and a stable stood, looking abandoned at the late hour. Further down the stone wall, Geralt recognized the back door to the clinic.  
  “Naturally the story intrigues me,” she said. “But instead of you telling it, I want you to show me where it happened. We will go to the well. I know where it is, I’ve walked up and down that street many times. Very easy to connect.”  
  Geralt had no time to protest. With a twirl of her arms, Mai cast a milky blue portal where they stood, grabbed the witcher by the coat sleeve once more and pulled them both into the passage.  
  Going through this portal felt as if nothing happened. They emerged on the street by the well, and there was the rope still coiled on the ground, splattered with the witcher’s blood. The exit portal vanished behind their backs, Geralt turned to look at its fading shape and shook his head in disbelief.  
  “Is something the matter?” Mai already craned her neck to look into the well.  
  “No,” said Geralt. “Nothing is the matter, on the contrary – the portal you cast… I’ve never experienced anything so… smooth.”  
  “Whatever are you speaking about? Are portals in Temeria usually scratchy? Do they come with needles as their lining? How do we get in here…” Mai circled the well, looking for something to attach the rope to.  
  “That they don’t,” said Geralt. “However, I often emerge from one feeling nauseous or with a headache. Sometimes both. Portals are not my favorite form of transportation.”  
  “Aah, this is a familiar phenomenon,” said Mai. “Loede calls it the shifting throat. Happens when the portal caster does not have a strong enough connection with the destination. The portals will appear, and you will be able to travel through them, but the connection point in the middle – called the throat – has a slight shift in its meld. Even if it’s off by only a few molecules, the portal will throw your physical being out of balance, and as you are transported, your body will not have enough time to put itself back together again, properly. Unless you stand at the connection point and allow yourself to regain your corporeal form, so to say. But nobody has time for that, and frankly, where is the connection point, anyway. One would lose their mind – in quite the literal meaning of the word – searching for it.” She laughed and began coiling the bloody rope around her arm. “Let’s go,” she said. “I want to see those remains. If I can determine the age of the child and a cause of death… Maybe it was a stillbirth… In that case, I wouldn’t feel as bad about the situation.” She ran around the well, looking again for something to tie the rope to, impatiently circling this way and that way.  
  “Come on, witcher, let’s go!”  
  “Wait.”  
  “Wait for what?” She adjusted the satchel strap across her chest. “Lower me in there. I can handle anything there is to see.”  
  “That’s just it. There’s nothing to see.”  
  Confused, she took a small step backward. “You said you sensed the remains of a child. Are you telling me you took them with you? That you had time to bury them in your injured state? Does Lady Undelempe have them?”  
  “There was a child, yes. It was alive when–”  
  All color left Mai’s face as she interrupted him in utter disbelief.  
  "Dear gods, what do you mean?! Alive? Was?! Are you telling me you killed an infant down there? Did the woman? Was it the woman’s? What is going on? Geralt?!”  
  Her fists clenched. The ‘we have to go down there’ escaped her throat more like a croak than a smooth sequence of words. She coughed.  
  “You have got to tell me in explicit detail what happened,” she said, still raspy. “I do not even care about the dead woman. She is gone. Tell me about this child!”  
  Geralt guided her to the base of the well.  
  “Sit,” he said.  
  “Why? Stop dallying, please! Honestly, I am starting to get scared!”  
  “Of what? Of what I’m about to tell you? Of me?”  
  She sighed, searching for words. “Maybe both. But speak. Speak.”  
  “She was in the bottom of the pool.”  
  “She?”  
  “Yes.”  
  “As if it makes a difference… I apologize. Go on.” She bit her lip.  
  “I thought it a corpse first, difficult to see in the dark and under water. It was hard to get to her under the blocks, balls, and sediment. A rod pierced her chest, so naturally...”  
  Mai shuddered. “A rod?! I thought you said she was alive. I don’t understand.”  
  “Please, let me finish. After I pulled her out and laid her on the edge of the pond… She moved. It was not the involuntary twitching of decaying muscles or the way a corpse moves when parasites have infested it. She moved her arms and legs like the newborn she was, lifted them up in the air and… screamed. Screamed so loud my eardrums nearly broke.”  
  “The rod still…?”  
  “Still through her chest, yes.”  
  “Oh gods, oh gods… How? By some magic?” She could sit no longer.  
  “Perhaps because she wasn’t human.”  
  “She was a vampire?" Mai furrowed her brow. "That would be near impossible. How can you be sure?”  
  "By the looks. By what happened. By what I know and have seen.”  
  “And she vanished, you say?”  
  “That she did. When I pulled the rod out of her chest. It seemed to frighten her, she lay whimpering while the wound healed in front of my eyes, and then… She turned to mist and disappeared just as I reached out to hold her.”  
  “Poor child… She was so famished; the defense mechanism immediately took over. That poor, poor baby!” Mai rubbed her face and groaned.  
  “Which is...”  
  Mai's arms waved in frustration as she explained. “Vampiric infants possess such a defense, to keep them from starvation, from turning mad, but it’s only as a last resort; truly nobody has been cruel enough to allow their child to reach such a point of desperation. Were they to become separated from their kin, they can turn to mist to seek out their blood relative, to feed. Granted the movement of an infant is slow, but eventually, they would be able to locate a source of food, whether it be their mother or father.”  
  “Father?”  
  “Of course! A father is a blood relative to his own child, is he not?” She looked almost offended at Geralt’s awkward question. “Listen, I’ve no time to stand here and lecture you on vampiric reproduction and the methods of child rearing. Somewhere out there is a newborn, searching for its parents, the same parents who pierced their own child’s chest with a… Did you get a good look at the metal rod? Did it feel somehow disgusting to you? Sticky?”  
  “I’ve no recollection of any stickiness.”  
  “The rod is likely an alloy – meteorite steel, dalvinite and silver – one that prevents vampires from turning into mist. It's an unpleasant experience to have it against your skin if you've any vampiric blood in you. Whoever pierced the child did not want them escaping, did not want them seen. Such reprehensible actions, such cruelty, is unheard of! Do you realize how rare it is, to see an infant vampire, to have one even be born in this world? I’ve known of only two in the last three hundred years, both here, in Raeval. It's simply…” She pressed the rope into Geralt’s hands. “Do you feel strong enough to lower me down?” Without waiting for an answer, Mai wrapped the end of the rope around her arms, climbed onto the edge of the well and jumped in. Geralt scrambled to hold onto the uncoiling rope.  
  “Come on!” he heard her say when he failed to lower her fast enough, and he complied. There was no room for regret.

  When a portal materialized next to him, Geralt stepped into it without hesitation. She was waiting for him by the entrance to the last cave, looking fearful, and cast a ball of light as soon as the witcher appeared by her side.  
  “Show me,” she said. “Show me everything. Could you have missed an item? Under the circumstances, I couldn’t blame you for an oversight.” Stepping carefully in the loose pebbles and dirt, she sought support from Geralt’s arm, and together they descended into the large cavern. It looked different to him now, lit by the cool blue light of her spell, its stalagmites and stalactites less ominous, almost plain. Everywhere the eyes could see, there lay blocks and balls of various sizes. Mai ran ahead.  
  “This is where I laid the child,” said Geralt, pointing to a flat stone poolside.  
  She felt the slab, damp from the moisture in the air, as if hoping to find a piece of the child left behind.  
  “Do you sense anything?” she asked. “I don’t feel any emotions. This place is so peaceful, I’d like to move in.”  
  Geralt focused, finding it easier to look around this time – the corpse of the woman in the far end of the cave showed no signs of wanting to wake up.  
  “The medallion in the bottom of the pool,” he said. “And the corpse of the woman has a few items.”  
  “Fuck the medallion. I’ve no time for cordial visits to see Ciaran. If he wishes to see me, he’s always welcome here, and he knows it. The desire to keep away from Eysisla has been his, and his alone, for what reason, I do not know and don’t care to pry.”  
  “There’s the woman,” continued Geralt, and pointed to a dusty lump further down the pool’s edge. “I am not sensing any sign of life from her, not anymore.”  
  “Let me see,” said Mai, and shuffled through the layer of wooden blocks and balls, some of which fell into the pool. When she brushed off the dirt covering the corpse’s dress, the skin on her fingertips snagged onto the silver embroidery. She leaned closer. She looked.  
  The shock of realization slapped her in the face with such force, she stumbled backward, away from this abomination she could not believe lay in front of her, and nearly fell in the water.  
  “Oh my god, Geralt, that’s my mother!”  
  The witcher observed this discovery unfolding in front of him, as Mai gathered her courage to approach the corpse once more, her medical mindset taking over. She inched closer, reached out her hand as if afraid the body would awaken at her touch, and lifted the skirt to reveal a leg – gray, brittle skin on it ready to crumble to dust.  
  “That’s her, I’m certain of it,” she said to Geralt’s unspoken question. “It’s the dress she had on...”  
  Mai searched the corpse with confidence it was not coming back to life, smoothed out the dress, held her mother’s hand – the same which had slashed open Geralt’s stomach – and examined the long fingernails, under which the witcher’s blood had already dried.  
  “I believe the head is over by that rock,” he said.  
  “Yes, I see.”  
  A disinterested sigh and a moment of thought later, Mai continued to look the corpse over. “Here, the cervical vertebrae have separated from each other,” she said. “She broke her neck, either due to the fall or someone broke it for her. The muscles subsequently stretched out without the help of the bone structure to support the head. Must have been a sight.”  
  “It was,” said Geralt. The visage of the woman in white lunging at him, her head dangling from a broken, stretched neck, mouth agape, would be a difficult one to forget. “Are you… alright? Would you like a moment to yourself?”  
  “For what?”  
  “She was your mother.”  
  Mai scoffed ‘she’s dead,’ but fell silent. Her hands continued searching the body, reaching under the folds of the dress, and pulled out a brocade pack.  
  “Hmm,” she said at the discovery of a small leather-bound book. Without opening it, she stuck it in her satchel and continued digging through the belongings.  
  Geralt remembered the moment for years afterward, and at times felt embarrassed to admit its magnitude. After all, money should not be the primary focus of anyone’s goals. But when she handed him a pouch, laconically requesting that the witcher take ownership of the coins within, he paused and allowed himself to realize which years-long journey had abruptly come to an end.  
  The pouch contained one hundred Eysislan ducats. He knew it by weight, and he knew it by sense. Three times the amount Yen and him needed. They were done collecting, done saving. They could proceed without worry.  
  He sat, near numb, the coins in one hand, accepting further gifts from Mai – a few emeralds, a diamond the size of a plum, a brooch that sparkled with the brilliance of a thousand small rubies.  
  “Give them to whomever.” Her voice had quieted to a near whisper.  
  “My wife,” he said, found himself missing Yen more than he ever remembered and could not wait to return home to tell her the news.  
  His sensitive hearing picked up on the small gasp she let out. Even as the orb of light suddenly extinguished itself, the witcher did not need its light to see Mai struggle to suppress the emotions triggered by those two words. As his joy comingled with her sorrow, she managed to remain composed for a moment under the blanket of darkness that wrapped itself around her only, but when she whispered _‘Tin amas isminthias …,’_ her voice broke.  
  Geralt didn’t know how to comfort her. He watched helplessly as she stood alone by the edge of the pool in mourning. Not yet privy to her personal space, he knew only to step away from it, but in doing so felt powerless; a letdown. With every moment, the distance between them increased – not in meters or spans, but in understanding – and the witcher did not feel ready to undertake the journey to return. Waiting was all he could do; waiting, and gritting his teeth at his own incompetence.  
  Help came from the unlikeliest of sources – Heddi’s arms were already wrapped around Mai when he materialized.  
  “Hugs fix hearts,” he said as he held her, and his black eyes cut through the darkness to stare at the witcher.


End file.
